


The Centre of All Things

by Reikah



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: And Even Worse Flirting, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mage Rights, Mages and Templars, Pro-mage Hawke, Romance, Smut, Terrible Jokes, purple Hawke is the gift that keeps on giving
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:08:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 67,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4082626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reikah/pseuds/Reikah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke gave Anders a ring, after their first night together, and never quite told him what it meant. As Kirkwall begins to crumble around them, Anders struggles to strike a balance between love and the needs of the mages.  </p><p>A fic for everyone who wished a romanced Anders could have received a unique costume update like the other LIs. <i>In retrospect, he had ample opportunity to realise what was happening from the moment Hawke first gave him the stupid thing.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on two separate tumblr posts: one wishing Hawke had given a romanced Anders a favor as he does with Fenris or Isabela, and another where Hawke gives Anders a magical ring and totally neglects to mention that is is, in fact, an engagement ring. This... sort of got out of hand.
> 
> With thanks to Eijentu, who held my hand.

In retrospect, he had ample opportunity to realise what was happening from the moment Hawke first gave him the stupid thing.

"It's a... ring?" he said uncertainly, because Hawke normally limited himself to highly heretical amulets. He'd thought - maybe Kirkwall's unofficial hero was branching out. Or, because he could feel the enchantments laid upon it, perhaps it was simply another gift, like the magic belt they'd found on a Coterie thug last week which Hawke had without thought or doubt thrown at Isabela. Nothing meaningful, anyway.

He was still in bed, sleepy and content, running his fingers softly over the sheets because they were actual silk. Actual silk sheets. Anders had never thought there'd come a point in his life in which he'd make love to a man who owned silk sheets, and even more so that the man in question would be another mage. Occasionally he'd remember the things Garrett had said that last night, the _until the day we die_ and _I love you_ parts in particular, and his heart would squeeze so powerfully he felt dizzy, like he could spin away into the air on the next exhale. It had been a very long time since he had felt this way about anyone. 

"Yes," Hawke said. He watched Anders carefully. "It's helpful, for healers."

"Oh," Anders said. He knew that, of course, had already worked out what magic the enchantments boasted. "Thank you, Garrett, that's - kind of you."

Hawke fidgeted restlessly. "Do you like it?" 

"It's very handsome," Anders said, and turned the ring in his palm, admiring it: silver filigree, with a worked sigil of some sort and small studded sapphires. The inside of the band was laced with lyrium, hence the enchantments, and the interest he could feel bleeding out from that tiny part of his mind he thought might be the remnants of Justice. The sigil itself was unrecognisable; time and the oil found on human skin had worn it down to nothing more than a small disc of silver. He slipped it onto his left index finger, and touched the worn contours with his thumb. Well, time and most likely the previous wearer doing just that. Hawke was still hovering, and it occurred to Anders for the first time that he looked nervous, which didn't make a whole lot of sense from a man who had given him an Imperial Chantry amulet and proudly told him that it was "shiny and subversive" - but then, this was the first gift Garrett had given him since they had taken to bed together, and so Anders figured that most likely explained it. He smiled at Hawke. "Thank you."

Garrett rocked on his heels and nodded at him solemnly. "Okay," he said, and, "I love you."

Maker help him, it still felt so odd to have someone just outright tell him that, using words anybody could overhear. Even Karl had only whispered it into his skin, in silence, so that both of them could pretend it had gone unsaid. Anders could feel his heart squeezing in his chest, like someone had it in a noose and was drawing it tighter and tighter, and decided to show his appreciation by leaning up out of the bed and kissing Hawke. The ring glinted attractively on his finger, and he supposed it was a last link to the man he had been, the one who wore earrings and soft woollen scarves, and who had fussed, just so, with the collar of his blue and grey tunic.

Hawke kissed him back, obviously.

* * *

Elegant was in the midst of smirking at a tall man with scarlet hair when Anders approached her stall, and he drew the hood of his cloak low over his face and stepped politely aside, waiting for her to finish conducting her business. It didn't take long. It never did. It was a bright summer day, and though the Lowtown sky was mostly obscured by billowing clouds of foundry smoke, it still existed, which automatically made it better than Darktown sky. It was windy, too, and the cloak billowed around his legs; he had to keep hold of the edge of his hood as Elegant beckoned him over.

"You know, your man found me a new recipe," she said, quite smugly. "Increases the potency of the... ah... product."

Anders squinted at her through the dust. "Are you asking for an invite to our bed, Elegant? And here I thought you a married woman -"

"Oh, stop it," she said, with a throaty chuckle, hitting his forearm lightly. "The, ah, blue. Here." She retrieved a small leather potion case from between her stall and pushed it over the table top toward him, the flap securely fastened; Anders undid both the wooden clasps holding it closed and opened it, giving a low whistle of appreciation at what he saw. Fifteen lyrium potions lay within, sewn into leather compartments, and he could see that they were brighter than usual, more powerful. "All on messere's tab, of course," Elegant said, when he glanced up at her for explanation. 

"Of course," Anders echoed. Hawke wanted to help, but couldn't heal like he could, and Anders was wary of accepting too much charity from him, afraid the Templars would use that link to pin him down someday. This was their compromise. Anders couldn't afford Elegant's fees normally, but between Hawke's patronage and his own stolen lyrium, courtesy of the mage underground, he usually had enough potions to keep him going in both his clinic and his... adventures. He unslung the old, empty case across his shoulder, sliding it to her over the wooden surface. As he did the togs up on the new case, he could see her smirking at him out of the corner of his eye. "Yes?"

"I just think it's sweet," Elegant said, with a purr rich in innuendo, "how messere takes... care of your clinic."

Before Anders could respond with either indignation (Justice's feelings, no doubt) or entendre (probably his own), a new voice piped up, its owner a small hooded figure slipping up next to him and making him jump. "Did someone say clinic? The one in Darktown?" 

The accent was familiar, the voice innocent; Anders tensed. "Afternoon, Merrill," he said, pulling the strap on the case over his shoulder and cross-wise across his body so that it fit snugly at his hip. Merrill was wearing a green cloak with a beech-wood clasp in the shape of a halla, no doubt a gift from Carver - who felt free to write to her when he wouldn't to his own brother - and no bloody shoes. What was it with Dalish women? "I'm just -"

"Buying potions, yes. Me too," Merrill said cheerily. She waved at Elegant, who inclined her head, still smirking. "Oh, I haven't seen you for days! You haven't been by the Hanged Man recently, have you? Isabela said that you were doing other things? Or other people? And then she laughed a lot, but I think I missed something. Are you alright? You're turning pink, that's not a normal thing humans do, is it? Oh, I've lived here for three years, and I just don't understand your colours -"

"I'm fine," Anders interrupted hastily. "I've been busy, Merrill. I'm sure Hawke's been running you and the others around, so -"

"Actually, nobody's seen very much of Hawke lately," she said, frowning. "I wanted to visit him yesterday but Varric said it was best not to, that he was probably occupied, and then Isabela started laughing again, but I _still_ didn't get it and I'm honestly not sure what's so funny about being occupied, because surely we've all been occupied at one point or I'm babbling aren't I I'm sorry."

Anders smiled despite himself, mostly at the memory of what Merrill might have witnessed had she visited yesterday, and then Justice viciously reminded him that Merrill was maleficar and therefore directly responsible for Chantry oppression of mages, which more or less killed his good mood. "I've got to get back to the clinic, Merrill," he said, throwing up a hand in farewell, "I'm sure I'll be by the Hanged Man soon."

"That's a nice ring," Merrill said, and Anders, surprised, glanced at it. She sounded thoughtful. "Was it a gift?"

"Yes," said Anders, and found himself touching the sigil with his thumb again, something that was quickly becoming a reassuring habit. "From Hawke, like your rings."

Merrill beamed. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Did you know, amongst the people, that a warrior has to give a token to one that he or she esteems before they can be bonded? Not just any token, either, it must be greatly significant." She touched the wooden halla holding her cloak together, head tilted to one side; she looked smaller than usual, swathed in the heavy green cloth. "Are you happy?"

The question seemed to come from nowhere. "Beg your pardon?"

"He seems happy. Hawke, I mean. Are you?"

She bloody knew, Anders thought, and wondered suspiciously how much of the innocence was feigned. Blood mages. Justice helpfully reminded him with a wave of righteousness that lying was second nature to a blood mage and they could not be trusted as far as you could throw them, and he sighed. "Yes," he said. "I suppose I am."

Merrill smiled at him like sunshine. "Good," she said, and she sounded like she meant it, which made Anders suspicious right away. Paranoid, Rolan would have said, with his hand on the hilt of his sword like Anders would break out in demons at any moment. He hadn't been completely wrong there, but Rolan was long dead, and shouldn't be able to hurt him anymore. Merrill cocked her head, huge green eyes fixed on him unnervingly, like an owl. "You've spent much too much time being grumpy. It's a nice change."

"Thank you," Anders said, because he didn't know what else to say, and fled.

* * *

"You and Hawke -"

"Yes, Captain," Anders said, shaking out a square of linen, "Me and Hawke. And you and Donnic now, I believe; congratulations, by the by." 

Aveline prowled anxiously by the door, a hand on her sword hilt as always. "Donnic is a good man," she said, forcefully.

"So is Hawke," Anders said, beginning to meticulously fold the linen into eights. "But of course, you meant that I'm not. Don't try to be subtle, it's clearly beyond you."

Aveline sighed. "You make him happy," she said, "for... Whatever reason, Anders. And I don't think that you're a bad person. If you were, you wouldn't be here." She gestured briefly at the clinic walls, which Anders had yet to scrub down for the night. Frankly, they needed to be demolished and rebuilt to be truly clean, but Anders didn't see that happening any time soon.

"Did you come all the way down from the winking lights of Hightown to give me the _break his heart and I'll break your face_ speech, Captain?" Honestly, Anders didn't even mean to sound confrontational; she irritated Justice, who didn't understand what role law and rules had in the pursuit of fairness and equality. "I can save you the effort next time."

Aveline reached up and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Anders -"

"I do actually love him, you know. This isn't a money-grubbing thing or an I'm-desperate-to-be-fucked-and-my-options-are-Fenris-or-Isabela's-phallic-tubers thing, and _one_ of those is likely to kill me. Possibly _not_ the tubers." He shook out another sheet from the clean linen basket, with potentially a bit more force than it required. "Garrett is... good to us. To me," he added quickly, because people got upset when he referred to himself in the plural, correct as it might be. 

"I know," Aveline said, and she sounded utterly sincere, sincere enough that Anders glanced up at her. "I know he loves you, and that you love him. I'm just worried. I think he's going about this too fast. Last week you were giving each other pining lovelorn faces when the other's backs were turned -"

"We were?" Anders said, puzzled. He knew _he_ had been, but Garrett also? This was new. He smiled despite himself, glancing at the ring.

"- and now you're moving in with him and he keeps sighing and gazing off into the distance when he should be concentrating. I'm concerned, Anders. I suspect that you might be his first love. I know he's not yours -"

Anders finished folding the second sheet of linen and tossed the bundle next to the first. "This is none of your business," he said.

"We both know what he is," Aveline said. "Your lifestyle is dangerous. I don't think it's right to involve Hawke in it."

"My _lifestyle_ ," Anders said, "involves Hawke being free to make his own bloody choices, Aveline. All of us should be able to make our own bloody choices, just like anyone else." He gave up on the rest of the sheets, too angry to concentrate; he tightened his fists on the edge of the laundry basket so she wouldn't see them shaking. "I'm done with this conversation."

Aveline's face darkened. "He gave you his father's -"

"- staff? Yes, he did." Anders met her gaze coolly. "Thank you for your concern. I hope you've spoken about this to Hawke the same way you have to me. It seems only fair, Captain."

They stared at each other for several long heartbeats, and then Aveline tossed her head, like one of the Anders dray horses that drew the beer wagons, big and strong. "Have it your way, you sour bastard," she said, "I was only trying to be _friendly_."

"No," Anders said, "you weren't."

* * *

"The ring is new," Fenris said.

"And so is your belt," Anders snapped, and then regretted it. Fenris hadn't been overtly hostile, or even invertly hostile; he had sounded bored, like someone fishing for small talk. He licked his lips and tried to take it back without apologising, because he was stubborn about many things but particularly about this mage-hating elf. "Did Hawke give it to you, too?"

"Yes." Fenris was crouching down at the top of the stairs, leaning forward so his greatsword's tip didn't scrape too harshly against the ground; his wrists were resting on his knees, his shoulders tense and alert. He looked like a bird of prey, waiting for the hare to blunder in range. Hawke and Isabela were busy with the vault below. _Stay back,_ they'd been told, _there'll be traps._ "He has been a generous friend. Perhaps more generous to some than to others."

"Mmm," Anders said, trying not to say anything else, and as always, unable to resist Fenris's goading. "And yet he always seems to have time for _you_ , surprising given that all you do is complain about what he _is_."

"Hawke is no normal mage," Fenris snapped. "He is not _weak_. I trust him not to turn to blood magic, or turn abomination." The way his eyes flicked to Anders made his meaning plain, and Justice flinched somewhere at the back of Anders's mind, as he always did when someone referred to them - to him by that word. _I am no demon!_

"You would see him trapped by the same rules as the others, then? The templars don't distinguish. They'll come for him eventually, when they think they can. They won't let a mage escape them, not even Hawke." They'd come for him, and he'd been a Grey Warden, conscripted with the blessing of a King. He pressed his thumb tightly against the ring's sigil, grounding himself in its familiar whorls and bumps, as familiar to him now as the freckles on Hawke's hips. "I love him. I am trying to keep him safe. To keep us all safe."

Fenris snorted. "You would create a new Imperium, and think that doing it for love is kinder than doing it for power," he said, scornful. "Hawke should have -" but he shut himself off in time. For a time, they stood in silence, each doing their best to pretend the other were not there; Fenris eventually sighed and stood up, slowly, arching his shoulders. "Isabela says that you... are living with Hawke, now?"

Anders tried, for the sake of not upsetting Garrett, to bite back his first response. It was a measure of how venomous his first response was that his _second_ response was a churlish, "what's it to you?"

"Be good to him," Fenris said. "Break his heart, and I will kill you."

Anders touched the ring again. It was getting slightly loose; he had lost weight since Garrett had given it to him. _I am not alone,_ he thought. _I am loved._ "There'll be a line," he said, and thought of Hawke's freckles.

* * *

Later that night - after the vault had been cracked and the noble blackmailed with the documents within, and they were all ten sovereigns richer with the striking exception of Isabela, who had taken as her prize a book of codes and mumbled something about a man named Wall-Eyed Sam - it occurred to Anders that Hawke had never explained where the ring came from. The sheets were rumpled and slightly stained, the air musky and warm; the fire crackled in its hearth, shadows dancing along the lines of their bodies. Garrett was dozing with his back to Anders's chest, mouth open, drooling on his pillow. Anders, who had never stayed with a lover long enough before to know how they slept, found it endearing.

Anders had his arm resting over the thick muscle of Hawke's waist, his thumb toying with the dark hair leading from his naval southward; his chin was fitted neatly into the curve of Hawke's shoulder. It had been a very long day, and he was tired all the way through, he could feel it down to his bones. Despite the comfort and security, he was finding sleep elusive. He could feel that part of him that was Justice (or perhaps Vengeance) churning restlessly, wanting to be back underground, guiding mages to freedom. _This is part of what I'm fighting for,_ he told the spirit. _The freedom for mages to do this. Is Hawke not a mage? He deserves this._ It didn't seem to have an effect. It rarely did.

He rolled onto his back, holding his hand out before him; he had kept the silver ring on when everything else was lying puddled across the bedroom floor, and he turned it carefully between his right thumb and forefinger, noting the fit, the looseness there. His stomach growled, accentuating what he already knew, and he sighed. He had had a full dinner, for a change, eating side by side with Hawke in the servant's quarters of the cold cuts left over from Leandra's meal; he rarely seemed to come home before the dead of night, had barely met the woman he supposedly shared a home with, but she always had food put aside for the two of them. Garrett seemed to take it in stride, like it was normal for a man to be home so very late.

"You're restless," Hawke said, beside him, and Anders glanced over. His lover was still as he'd left him, dozing on his side with an arm shoved underneath his pillow, but he raised his head as if sensing Anders's eyes on his back. "Nightmares?"

"No," Anders said. "Not yet, at any rate. I need to go to sleep before I can be dragged awake screaming." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, feeling the scratchiness there, and sighed; the sheets rustled and the mattress quivered as Hawke rolled over to watch him. "I'm worried about..." Himself, mostly. Vengeance. The Knight-Commander, an ever-looming threat. Hawke, tying himself to another apostate, and whether or not Hawke truly loved him or had merely attached himself to the first free mage he found he wasn't related to. Nothing new. "I'm worried about the Qunari," he said, because he was a habitual liar, convincing himself that it didn't count as lying if he did it for the sake of those around him. He wasn't far-gone enough that he didn't recognise the sliding slope he crested.

Hawke sighed. "Tomorrow we're going to look into that missing delegation," he said. "Petrice swears they're still alive, but let's be honest, who'd believe her if she said the sky was blue?"

"Not in Lowtown it isn't," Anders said, and Hawke laughed. 

"Exactly."

"Who are you taking with you, to the meeting with the -" a flash of anger from the spirit inside him, Anders could recognise the foreign intrusion - "templar?"

Hawke frowned at him and moved with a rustle of silk, a luxurious slithering noise that made Anders press his tongue to the roof of his mouth, in order to touch their foreheads together; he liked doing that, the first lover Anders had ever had who did. Perhaps the first who'd dared, the first not taught to be ashamed and frightened of intimacy. His own back bore marks from the time the templars had found him kissing that girl, Emily; she'd told them, on questioning, that he'd caught her unawares, forced her into it. He hadn't blamed her, and the templars hadn't spared her, either. He forced himself to keep breathing, calm and unhurried, and smiled at Hawke, who smiled back, brown eyes brightening. They were amber in the warm light. "If you want to come with me tomorrow," he said, "I'd be very... I'd be grateful. You're better at patching us up than Merrill or I. Anyway, you know I like showing off in front of you."

"I've noticed," Anders said.

"Plus, a dead templar! Never say I never do anything romantic with you."

Anders snorted despite himself. "Probably not a good idea to bring Aveline, with that kind of attitude. Or that elf."

"The 'elf' by which you mean Fenris, yes," Hawke said. "It's _also_ not a good idea to go against a templar without bringing someone better than them at sharp knives. Their bloody smites _hurt_ , and Isabela seems to have issues with the Qunari. You think it's a Rivaini thing?"

"No," Anders said. "I think it's an Isabela thing. Who else?"

"Varric," Hawke said. "Merrill won't come, she's doing something at - doing something."

"With that mirror. The blood magic mirror," Anders said, because it was an old argument between them, and he didn't like the way Hawke wouldn't look at him. "You should never have given her that - arulin'holm, whatever it was."

"Funny," Hawke said. "Fenris says I should never have given you that ring. Everyone seems to have an opinion on everyone else."

Anders tensed. "That bloody hypocrite - he's accepted plenty of magic rings from you. Was this one made with blood magic? Were demons involved in its design? Is it inherently dangerous?"

"No," Hawke said, not quite meeting his eyes. "It's - it's been with me for a while."

"Then it's nothing to do with him," Anders said, with heavy finality. 

Hawke sighed. "Look, he hasn't had it easy, Anders - I know, I know. But if I'm able to look past the things he says about mages, maybe you can try. Just, I don't know, focus on his mismatching eyebrows and remember that all the bitterness is coming from a place of deep hurt! Also, one hell of a lot of wine. Seriously, it's astounding how much fits inside one elf."

"He's your friend," Anders said, clipped, and Hawke hesitated. "He'd sell me out to the templars in a heartbeat if he didn't like you so much, you know."

"He wouldn't," Hawke said, with confidence. "Sebastian would, though, which is why I'm going to make nice with him in the chantry this weekend. I'm looking forward to it like a hole in the head. Hopefully the Grand cleric won't be there, I don't have the patience for her hand-wringing today."

"Do you ever?"

"No. Less now than I used to, I think. Your influence, love." Hawke kissed him, very carefully, on the mouth, his beard rasping against Anders's chin; Anders closed his eyes and moved forward, deepening it. This at least he understood. 

"I love you," he said, because he did, and because he thought if he said it enough, it might _be_ enough. Maybe the world would be kind to them. He hadn't promised Hawke a happy ending, and he was still so scared Hawke would come to his senses, but Maker help him, he was smitten, harder than he'd ever been, and it was so hard for him to hold himself separate from Hawke, to love him but not confide in him. He trusted Hawke with his heart. He hoped there'd be a time whereupon he could trust Hawke with his secrets. 

Hawke drew back and rubbed their noses together, the edges of his mouth turned up fondly. "I know," he said. "I love you, too. Now come on, try to get some sleep. I'm not having you triggering any traps in their super-secret fanatic's base with your face."

Anders snorted. "As you command," he said, because he couldn't help himself; he raised his hand, fitting it comfortably over Hawke's hip, glancing down at the silver ring he apparently didn't deserve and Hawke's freckles, small bumps under his thumb.

This was what he had. It was more than any mage in the Gallows would dare to dream of. He knew he owed it to them, to fight until his last breath for their right to do this, to lie comfortably in the arms of a lover; but right now he just... He just wanted a moment of peace. To keep what he had. _selfish_.

He wasn't sure anymore if the thought was his or Vengeance's, but it wasn't new. He pushed it aside with difficulty, closing his eyes. He'd redraft section six of his manifesto before Hawke headed to the Chantry on the weekend; perhaps it might be enough this time for Elthina to _listen_. Hawke was a very persuasive messenger, when he wasn't flirting inappropriately or cracking lewd jokes or being somewhat insensitive about dead relatives.

Okay, Hawke was a terrible messenger, but Anders loved him, so that had to count for something.

* * *

"You know, Blondie," Varric said conversationally, "you're kind of making this too easy for us."

"Sssh," Isabela hissed, "I'm making enough here to buy a new ship at this rate!"

"I'm not even playing," Anders felt compelled to point out. He'd folded long ago, and the only players left in were Fenris, Isabela, Varric and of course Hawke. He was leaning with his head pillowed on Hawke's shoulder, his thumb brushing over the sigil on his ring; Hawke kept tilting his head and rubbing his cheek against Anders's forehead with a small bristle of beard.

"And that's fine, sweet thing," Isabela said, "we're all very happy for you. Don't mind the dwarf, his magnificent chest hair is cutting off the air to his brain. I raise you a sovereign, Hawke."

There were whistles all around the table at her audacity; Hawke just tossed a solid gold coin on top of the pile and lifted his chin defiantly. "Fold," Fenris said, throwing his cards down and taking a long draught of his ale.

"Fold," Varric said.

"Draw," Hawke said, and Varric pushed the deck over toward him; he drew two more cards, poor ones.

"Call," Isabela said, smirking like the cat that had not only the cream but possibly the whole dairy, and laid out a mediocre hand that was still better than Hawke's. Cackling, she swept her winnings over to her side of the table; Anders winced at the heavy fall of the mountain of silver.

"Oooh," Merrill said, "you were so good there, I didn't even see you cheating!"

"I didn't need to, kitten," Isabela said, smug. "Another game, Hawke?"

"What, not content with cleaning me out of fifteen sovereigns?" Hawke lifted an eyebrow. "You're playing very well this evening."

"Your pet abomination is pulling faces every time you draw a card," Fenris said, without looking up. "His bad luck seems to be infecting you."

"I am?" Anders touched his face, then frowned. He'd been trying to be deadpan. "How long have I been doing that?"

"... All night," Merrill said, sheepishly.

Hawke laughed. "Well," he said, "I should have expected it. Not to worry, next time we go spelunking, I'll keep his share of the treasure." He kissed Anders on the temple, grinning. "... Okay, maybe not. I can barely sell my own share of old scarves and Qunari horn balm."

"Fifteen sovereigns," Anders said, and sat up straighter. Maker, fifteen sovereigns could feed a Darktown family for months. "No. No, you have to play for that back. I'll go sit... Elsewhere."

"It's fine," Hawke said, with a snort. "Besides, I don't think I can buy my way back into the game with what I've got on me. Unless you take payment in boots?"

"Thanks, sweet thing, but I've already got a pair," Isabela said, "and if you bet your boots, I'd have to bet mine, and then your trousers would be next, and then there we'd be with Aveline giving us the speech about public nudity again."

"Again? Aveline already spoke to you about public nudity?" Merrill smiled brightly. "That was nice of her. There's a streaker in the Alienage, perhaps that's what she meant? I personally don't mind him, he adds character to the place."

"I know the one," Isabela said, with a small smile. 

"Leaving aside the issue of the Alienage streaker," Anders said carefully, "fifteen sovereigns is - a lot of money to lose because I can't stop making faces, Hawke." With fifteen sovereigns he could replace one of his suture packs: the steel scissors and curved needles were expensive as anything, and the catgut wasn't easy to obtain. He patted his money pouch - empty, and then touched the Imperial chantry amulet hanging from its leather thong deep under his clothes before deciding it was too risky. To Isabela he said, "how about this? Would this be collateral enough?"

"Oh, absolutely," Isabela said, her lips curving up as she glanced at the silver and sapphire ring. Beside him, Hawke stiffened, and her eyes flicked to him before widening momentarily. "Oh. Oh! oh, I _see_. Perhaps not, sweet thing. It was a gift, wasn't it?"

Hawke gently placed a hand over Anders's, lacing their fingers together, and said, "keep it. Please."

Anders blinked at him, a little confused; Isabela leaned over the table, looking oddly smug again. "You two are just so adorable I could eat you up, you know? So - how does it work?"

"How does what work?" Hawke sounded at least as mystified as Anders.

"You know - in the bedroom? Who takes control? Who's on top -"

Varric groaned, and Anders flushed all the way to his ears. "None of your business!"

"He is, then," Isabela said, with a nod at Anders. "I thought you would be. Do you still do that electricity thing? Does he like it? I'm asking for a friend."

"Friend-fiction, you mean," Hawke said, with a bark of laughter. "I'm not telling you anything. I'm not having my love life serialised in a Lowtown gutter-rag."

Isabela pursed her lips. "No?"

"It's got to be at least a Hightown gutter-rag, Isabela. More exposure."

"Which is something I doubt you have a problem with," Isabela replied, straight-faced, and Hawke snorted. She grinned. "I thought that was a good one."

"If you're done flirting, Hawke, Rivaini," Varric said drily.

"They were flirting? Is that how humans do it?" Merrill sounded intrigued. "It was never so complex with the Dalish. We just gave each other tokens and then went back to our tents."

"Sounds efficient," Hawke said, at the same time as Fenris said " _Pfagh_."

Anders touched his thumb to the sigil on his rejected ring, leaning back in the chair, as Varric distributed match-sticks; their fall-back currency when any of them got too broke to bet real money. He considered waving his away and retiring for the evening, but Hawke slipped an arm around his shoulders, squeezed him close with a rustle of feathers, and said, "let's work on your deadpan, eh? Or else I really am going to end up buying Isabela a new boat."

" _Ship_ ," Isabela corrected, cutting the deck so quickly Anders couldn't even keep track of the movements of her hands.

They lost each and every round, but Hawke didn't seem to mind, calling Norah over again and again to top up his ale, laughing and joking with his friends. He was in his element here, accepted, loved. Anders couldn't claim to quite as much ease. He couldn't leave the ring alone, toying with it with his right hand. Isabela would have had any piece of jewellery he wore, along with most of his clothing; he wondered what she had seen in Hawke's face to make her decline his possessions. Would she have taken anything else? The gold and pearl magic ring on his right hand, the enchanted dragon's tooth amulet Hawke had given him, the Imperial chantry sigil? 

He didn't know. He didn't want to ask.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one in which Leandra.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuses for the horrendous delay! I've been pretty blocked on this fic, plus going through some personal shenanigans, but hopefully the update pace should vastly pick up from here on out. Thanks to Eijentu, who helped immensely, and Mikkeneko, who gave me advice which I completely ignored because I'm absolutely insufferable.

The house was dead silent, and Anders stood in the grand hall, head in his hands, and realised that he did not know what to do. Hawke had gone straight to their room, moving stiffly, like his joints were filled with glass; Anders had seen more animation in elderly arthritics. Their troubles could be soothed with a careful dose of healing magic. Hawke's could not.

He'd told Orana and Bodahn what had happened himself; Sandal had been there too, although Anders wasn't truly sure how much he understand. Orana had wept. Bodahn had put a hand on sandal's shoulder, back suddenly bowed, and told Anders that he'd make sure the boy let the 'messeres' be. Anders didn't know what to say to that, at Bodahn's simple assurance that he, as much as Hawke, could be considered the head of this small odd household, so he'd just said his thanks and beat a hasty retreat.

He could still smell the foul rotting odour Leandra had carried, that putrid scent of decay. It was impregnated in his clothing. Hawke had abandoned his the moment he got home, leaving them heaped outside his tightly locked door; Anders had collected it and taken it to the cellar room in which Orana did most of her washing, figuring that he could at least spare Hawke that much. Now he stood there in the hall, his head in his hands, and wondered what he should be doing. Should he be with Hawke? Should he be out of the house entirely? He didn't - he didn't know much about grieving, not really. 

Most of him wanted not to be here, worried that in his clumsiness he'd somehow hurt Hawke, make it harder for Hawke. He couldn't say that he had known Leandra much, really, despite having now shared her son's bed for three months; his own unsociable hours had rarely seen them mingling. Still, she had left cold cuts out for them, when they were home late, and what conversations they had, whilst awkward, had not been hostile. Anders knew she wished her son could have chosen elsewise; she knew what it was to love an apostate. Or had known, at any rate. No mother ever dreamed of a life for her children spent hiding what they were, or who they loved. No parent ever wanted to see their children repeat their own mistakes, and yet, here they were. 

Anders passed a hand over his face and sighed deeply, and made for the stairs leading up to their room. He might not have been Leandra's choice, but he was - for now - Hawke's. He loved Garrett; he was sure of almost nothing as much as he was sure of that. He would offer what comfort he could, what comfort Hawke would accept, because it was breaking his heart to know that Hawke was hurting, and that he couldn't fix it. The spirit in his chest was quiet for once, perhaps shocked into silence by the sheer injustice of what they had witnessed. For tonight, at least, he was just Anders.

It wasn't enough, but then again, Anders never had been enough. It occurred to him, as he climbed the last stair, that someone ought to write Carver; and that, if Hawke had not already made arrangements, he would do it. It was an odd feeling. He had never before been so invested in anybody else's life. 

He touched the ring with his thumb again, for luck, before he knocked on the door. He didn't know why. It felt like the right thing to do.

* * *

Hawke's elbow scraped mournfully off the stone wall of Hightown, the city guard under his other arm wincing apologetically at the noise. Anders gave her a thin-lipped smile and reached into Hawke's pocket, fishing out the brass set of keys. It was late enough that even Bodahn had likely retired to bed, and Anders was still uncomfortable with expecting someone to answer his every whim.

The guardswoman carefully ducked her head under Hawke's outflung right arm as Anders popped the door open; Hawke was leaning heavily against Anders by now, his face raspy with shaggy untrimmed beard against Anders's throat. The guardswoman cleared her throat as Hawke grunted and leaned his lax weight further into Anders, glancing around the deserted square. "Are you going to be alright with Messere Hawke from here?" 

"I should be," Anders said. He fished in Hawke's pocket and came up with a half-sovereign, which he gave her; she made it vanish into her pocket, brightening up. Despite Aveline's strict rules on bribery 'tips' from nobles still ensued plenty of preferential treatment from the guard. Normally Anders would have found that objectionable, but right now he had no wish to change that for Hawke's sake, for all his staff more closely resembled a polearm with a heavy blade and was in any case locked up for the day in Hawke's bedroom. 

"Good evening to you, Serah," the guardswoman said, stepping respectfully away from Hawke's weight and whistling as she resumed her rounds. Hawke sagged heavily against Anders, who readjusted his grip on the man's shoulders and coaxed him through the door.

He'd never seen Hawke this drunk, and part of him was more than a little concerned. As they crossed the threshold the dog came bounding in from the main hall, jaws agape and tongue lolling damply free; Anders managed to refrain from shuddering and whistled to him. "Steady him on the other side, old boy, thank you," he said, as the dog set one thickly muscled shoulder against Hawke's flank. Garrett's hand came down heavily on top of Dog's broad densely-furred skull, his fingers digging in hard enough to wrinkle the skin. "You and me now, boy," he murmured, alcohol slurring his words. Corff's whiskey smelled worse on the breath than in the cheap clay cups he served all his drinks in, glass too expensive to replace.

"Come on, love," Anders murmured, eyes on Garrett as they crossed into the main hall, "Let's get you to bed." 

To his surprise Sandal was still up, humming happily to himself as he dusted along the workbenches; he wore a red silk scarf with the Amell crest on over his face, as though he were combatting a great deal of dust instead of the pitiful amount that could have accrued there since Orana had dusted yesterday. The great fire was still lit and cheerfully flickered away in its grate. Sandal stood up straighter when he saw them, tugging the scarf down, and grinned widely. "Letter," he said.

"Thank you, Sandal, but I think Hawke's post can wait," Anders replied, eyeing the staircase ahead of them; Hawke leaned heavily against him and groaned, low, in the back of his throat. "Garrett," Anders said, licking his lips. "Come on, love, one foot at a time."

"Room's spinning," Hawke muttered.

"Yes. It'll stop if we get you into bed. There we go, love. Left foot first."

Sandal watched them with bright curiosity as they made their ungainly way up the staircase, Dog following cautiously behind with his ears flattened uncertainly to the side. Anders himself couldn't tell how much help a mabari would be catching a drunk, grieving human falling down a flight of stairs, but he supposed that was what the sober healer was for. He kept an arm slung around Hawke's back, guiding him patiently upward, and when Hawke started to cry halfway up it was second nature by now to move his hand up a little, to card his fingers through Garrett's soft dark hair. 

It was a cruel coincidence that Leandra's funeral had fallen on Garrett's name-day. The tradition established among their friends by now would have had Garrett drinking himself stupid at the Hanged Man with the rest of them, competing to down his age's number in shots of acrid cheap liquor while providing the same for his friends and companions. Instead the drinking had been done in near-silence, Hawke dressed still in black fresh from the chantry, cracking those horrid don't-look-at-me jokes that sent shivers arcing through Anders's spine and made his chest ache in sympathy. Hawke hadn't wanted comfort then, not while there were people present to witness his facade of humour, grin like a skull's sneer on his face as he matched Isabela shot for shot, his grip on his cards steadily loosening.

Anders hadn't gone to the funeral itself. Too many Templars, drummed out in their parade best, as though by standing oppressively around Leandra's corpse they could make the people of Kirkwall forget they hadn't stopped the mage who had killed her. Varric had offered him space in his suite for the day, and he had arrived to find Merrill already there, turning a small carved badge between her bare hands. Justice had stirred uneasily at the sight of her, but Anders had gently pushed him away. Isabela had joined them after barely any time at all, while Varric changed into a black copy of his favourite duster, and left to meet with Hawke and Aveline at his estate. Sebastian would already be at the chantry; from what Anders had been able to gather, Fenris would be joining them there too, from a respectable distance. Half of Hightown would be attending, and one silent elf in black could pass unnoticed.

"Well," Isabela had said, after a moment of silence, and drawn a pack of cards from her pocket. "Shall we?"

"Against Merrill and _me_?" Anders had asked, waving away the offered deck. "You know we've no coin, right?"

Isabela's mouth twisted, amused. "I don't always play to bankrupt people, you know."

"Carver," Merrill said, turning the badge around in her hands. Her eyes were red-rimmed and wet, and this more than Isabela and Aveline's warning glares had kept both Fenris and Anders from snapping at her for her blood magic in Hawke's hearing. Perhaps her grief might be enough to show her a less dangerous way, Anders hoped. "Did - did Carver write back?"

Anders had looked away. "He won't be here tonight." He'd written a short letter with the bare bones to Carver, not knowing what else to say to the boy he barely knew and hadn't seen for nearly three years; Carver had sent back a longer one, addressed to Garrett, and he hadn't read it nor seen it again after Garrett had taken it into the study with him. Garrett had let him in, that evening of her loss, and despite Anders's own inexperience they had ended up sprawled together in bed, Hawke weeping into his chest. It had felt right, even as Anders fought back the prickling at his own eyes. Leandra wasn't his mother, and Hawke did not need to share any of his grief; Anders's mother was probably dead herself, and if not she had never found out what became of him, her rangy son all knees and elbows and dirty feet.

He hadn't cried for Karl, either of the times he'd lost him. He'd locked the grief up tight, pushing it onto the small space he pushed everything he didn't dare examine too closely, and found peace in fury. Anger had been a tried and trusted friend for most of his years in the Circle, although he'd been smart enough to keep it hidden; he remembered little of the morning he'd woken to find Karl gone other than a faint recollection of hurling a textbook through a window, and then being hit with a smite for the first time in his life from one of the junior templars, so strong it'd knocked him off his feet. _Next it'd be a rage demon,_ the templar had argued with his superior as Anders lost consciousness, as though mages couldn't be trusted to handle strong feelings. 

Well, to hear the late Ser Alrik talk, they couldn't. Better to make all of them Tranquil in advance.

Garrett lurched unevenly against him, and Anders shifted his weight a little to steady his lover as they climbed the last stair. He'd deliberately taken Hawke's left-hand side just so that as they reached the top of the steps he could push a little against Garrett with his hip, adjusting their trajectory toward their room in order to keep himself between Leandra's bedroom door and Hawke. Dog whined anxiously, attaching himself to Garrett's thigh again as the two of them manhandled - or man and dog-handled - Hawke into his bedroom; the fire here had been banked to dimly glowing embers, and Anders could see the outline of a pair of warming pans, one set on each side of the bed. It had been months now and still that display of thoughtfulness surprised him.

He eased Hawke down onto his side of the bed as the dog made his way to the strip of carpet in front of the fire, momentarily wondering if he should undress his lover first before deciding that it didn't matter. Hawke was going to sleep deeply tonight, with some help he'd requested this morning. Anders tugged off Hawke's boots and crossed over to the nightstand on his side of the bed, picking up the pitcher of water there and the upturned glass and pouring one into the other. The water was beautifully clear; Hightown drew water from different wells than Lowtown, stone channels carved with dwarven ingenuity much deeper into the bedrock. None of that brown Darktown water for the nobles, with the insect larvae nesting in stagnant puddles.

Hawke watched him without expression, eyes half-lidded and mouth lax. He was lying exactly as Anders had put him, on his stomach. His gold-brown eyes were dull and quiet, and Anders bit his lip as he opened the night stand drawer, removing one of his oiled leather twists of herbs; shaking the contents into the water he clasped the mouth of the glass between splayed fingers and began the effortless swirl his herbcraft tutor had imparted back at the Circle, mixing the contents without spilling even a drop. "This will be a little strong," Anders warned him.

"Good," Hawke said savagely. He pushed himself upright and reached for the glass with his right hand. Anders pressed it against his palm, gently supporting the weight of it until he was sure Hawke had it fully. A bead of condensation had formed on the outside of the glass. It trickled slowly down through their fingers before he drew his hands back, wiping them dry on his coat-tails. Hawke tossed his head back and drained the whole glass, like he was still competing with Isabela over shots.

"I love you," Anders said softly, taking the glass back when it was empty. He put it quietly back on the side table, and behind him Hawke yawned, making a half-hearted effort to cover his mouth with the back of his hand.

Sandal had followed them upstairs, holding the duster in one hand and a bouquet of sealed envelopes in the other; condolence letters had been flooding the estate since Leandra's passing. Anders had taken to opening them for him, just to try and weed out the few personal correspondence amidst the socially appropriate ones. Leandra's scandalous elopement had overshadowed even her triumphant return. "Letters," Sandal told him solemnly in response, his eyes bright and piercing on Anders's own.

"Thank you, Sandal," Anders said, holding out his hand. Sandal pressed the bundle of envelopes into his palm, and drummed his fingers anxiously on the topmost one, made of a rougher less refined paper. Anders turned it over; instead of Hawke's name or title someone had drawn a poor likeness of a wolf in profile, fangs bared.

" _Letter_ ," Sandal said.

All day Justice had been fluttering uneasily inside him, a foreign discomfort Anders had not bothered trying to placate. Yes, there were things he could and should have been doing for the cause; his manifesto was currently in pieces, a scattered mind-map of loose pages on the desk that needed to be drawn together into a cohesive whole. It didn't matter, not right now. He wanted to be with Hawke. He wanted to be there for Hawke, to give him what he needed, because Anders knew loneliness well, knew it like a constant weight on his back, and if he could keep it away from Hawke for now he would try his hardest. He still wasn't completely clear on what love was, beside the romance novels that circulated the Circle in an endless loop, but the more time he spent with Hawke the more he thought he knew. 

The wax seal on the wolf's head envelope was lumpy and unformed to the casual eye, but there was meaning in its design. Despite himself, Anders tore the letter open, unfolding it. Hawke was watching him muzzily from the bed. _Otter Hance is missing,_ said the words in spidery red ink. _The hounds took a licking but they're closing ranks. I don't know why you've stopped dancing, but they're embarrassed and they're getting worse. You danced better than any of us. Care for a song?_

Embarrassed because of Quentin, probably. They'd ignored their own man, and now a maleficar had murdered a noblewoman, taken down not by templars but by her fickle and mercenary son. Bancroft wouldn't've written him unless things were growing worse.

He wanted to, Maker help him; Justice definitely wanted to. But he couldn't. He didn't remember an Otter Hance, although he probably had met the man. There were never very many involved in their efforts. Justice coiled unhappily in that part of his mind that the spirit had made home, sending an impression of disapproval mixed with a curl of something harder to place. Distrust of Anders's complacency, perhaps? After all, he'd never run away from the Circle while he had Karl. 

_Don't think about Karl_ , he told himself, and read the letter again hastily.

Bancroft might want him back, but after Ella... no. Hawke was in no state to accompany him now, to haul Vengeance back from committing an atrocity in its blindness, even if Anders had been willing to involve him so deeply.

"Gotta go?" Hawke asked, voice thick with alcohol and sleep.

"No," Anders said, and crumpled the letter up. He crossed the room and fed both it and the envelope to the fire. "I'm here, love, if you need me."

Hawke smiled hazily into his pillow, and held out an arm over Anders's side of the bed; it stayed aloft for only a few heartbeats before drooping along with his eyelids. The potion was kicking in. Anders wished regretfully that it worked so well on him. Something about the Grey Warden blood clashed violently with it; the one time he'd tried he'd ended up stuck in the nightmare, which had become an image of darkspawn pounding on the door of a small windowless cell while inside he'd -

_No._ Anders dropped the condolence letters on the desk, next to Hawke's journal. A job for the morning. For now, he would go to bed, next to his lover, and for Hawke's sake, he wouldn't even complain if that giant slobbering mutt jumped up on the covers. He wasn't an expert on love, outside of the unrealistic images of his early twenties, or the romance serials he'd devoured thirstily under his blankets in the apprentice dorm, but he hoped that was part of it.

* * *

It was rare for him to be woken by nightmares not his own, and yet Anders came to wakefulness not to the fading echos of darkspawn but instead to Hawke, whining like a stricken mabari beside him, pillow clamped over his face and spine arched ungracefully between the sheets. Experience had long ago taught Anders the best way to handle this, and so he sat up, poured a glass of water from the pitcher sitting next to his bed, and held the glass loosely over his knee as he waited for Hawke to wake up.

"Here," he said once Hawke had surged upright with a choked gasp, holding the glass out as Hawke sucked in deep breaths, eyes darting to the various corners of the room. Garrett sat up slowly, gingerly, wincing, and took the glass in hands that shook, just a little. Anders watched him, his heart tugging in sympathy; part of him wanted to close the distance between them, take Hawke in his arms, and hold him like together they could keep each other safe. The rest of him saw himself in the wariness to Hawke's shoulders, the way his eyes rolled in their sockets. "I'm sorry," he said gently, although he wasn't entirely sure what for. Leandra, perhaps, gone now for almost a month and still mourned.

Hawke drained the glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his forearm, then shuddered, like the dog shaking itself off from the rain. "I'm never sure of the etiquette between mages," he said, his voice scraped and hoary. "Is it polite to talk about demons? When they come to you at night, I mean?"

Anders couldn't say he was surprised. Hawke never talked about them, but if any situation would attract the bastards, it'd be his. He tilted his head to one side, ignoring a flicker of concern and indignation that came from the part of him that glowed blue. "Did your father not discuss them with you?"

"Yes." Garrett ran a palm over his face. "Yes, he did. He thought that keeping the dreams to yourself just made their hooks sink in deeper. I'd talk to him about every nightmare, about what it looked like, what it offered. He talked about tricks to try to make it easier to say no, if they came back. He talked to Bethy, too, sometimes the three of us at the kitchen table. There we'd be, a trio of apostates, hollow-eyed and scared, with Carver pouting from the doorway because he thought he was being left out." He shivered again, and Anders took the glass from him, quiet and patient. "After father died I tried to talk to Bethy, but she - she didn't want to. She said they were scary enough in the dark, she didn't want to think about them during the day as well." He looked up at Anders and pulled a face. "She started going to the Chantry more often, though. Scared me senseless, her being that close to the templars, but - "

He cut himself off, rubbing at his hair with both hands, leaving it sticking up wildly every which way. Anders put the glass back on the night table, and inched a little closer, finally setting a hand on his lover's shoulder. "It's alright," he said. "You're safe here, love. Is there a specific type that haunts you?"

Hawke turned away to face the embers in the fireplace, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "Pride," he said. "Telling me I could... I could save her."

"I'm sorry," Anders said again, because he was. It wasn't enough. 

"Wasn't you who did it," Garrett said, staring at his hands. "Was one man. One blood mage."

"Dead," Anders said, keeping his voice level. He could recall Hawke's face after the funeral, the strangled outrage as he spoke about the templars in their parade best. _Where were they when she needed them_? "In the Circle... no. You don't discuss them. It starts in the apprentice years; you know which of the others are dreaming, you can hear them crying in the night, but you don't want the templars... the First Enchanter knowing. If you struggle too much, they might decide the Rite of Tranquility would be kinder than a Harrowing."

Hawke frowned. "But what about each other?"

"Apprentices are all too happy to sell each other out to the enchanters." Anders looked down at his knees. "There might be a reward. Something from outside the Circle, some preferential treatment to make it easier to get by. Perhaps even a tip on surviving your Harrowing; we hoarded those like gemstones. It feels like an execution date for most of us. It becomes a habit, even after your Harrowing."

"I'm sorry," Hawke said quietly, and Anders glanced at him sidelong, out of the corners of his eyes. He had his elbows on his bent knees, both of his hands in his hair; his bare shoulders glinted orange in the firelight with fear-sweat. 

"It's the bloody templars," Anders replied, unable to keep the sharp edge from his voice. "Nobody else's fault. We are what they made of us."

Garrett let his hand catch fire, and Anders glanced at the bedroom windows; but the curtains were drawn entirely against the night. "Do you still have them? Demon dreams, I mean. It seems to be all darkspawn, from what I've overheard."

"Justice doesn't share," Anders said. "And I've tried to avoid the Fade since we merged. It's - horrifying, being trapped at the back of your mind, aware and unable to stop your body, and I - " He shuddered, feeling abruptly heavy, weighed down with guilt. In a small voice he said, "I make Justice live like that _all the time_."

He was barely aware of the hand Hawke put on his shoulder, cautious in his comfort; Anders had rejected it enough in situations similar to this one. He thought about drawing away, changing the subject, and then decided to hell with it: it was dark and late, and he was tired. He'd let it stay. He shouldn't be taking his strength from Hawke, not like this. It was already a mistake falling in love with the man, albeit one Anders didn't think he could begin to regret.

"Father told me that spirit healers work with one spirit usually," Hawke said, uncertainty bleeding in at the edges of his voice. Every now and then Anders forgot that he was a hedge wizard at heart, an apostate with only whatever Circle training his father had deemed appropriate to pass on. "And that spirit healers usually have to - impress them? Is that how you met Justice?"

Anders snorted amusement at that. "No," he said, thinking of the other spirit healers at Kinloch, and their pride when their spirits finally deigned to help them. One particular apprentice had courted a spirit of Faith for months. Anders had joked that she'd be better off with a spirit of Hasty Decision-making, and received a glare from Wynne that could have curdled milk. "Some do. I worked with whichever would help me. Before, I mean."

"I can't stop thinking about mother," Hawke said, and lowered his eyes. "The demons that appeared... what he did with them. All of them. Mother, the other women, the demons themselves. The Templars... I never wanted to listen, but I - I don't know. Bethany hated her magic, you know."

Anders glanced away, out the windows, and bit back his first defensive response. "If she spent a lot of time in your village Chantry, no wonder. The faith is all about teaching mages to hate themselves. A lot of Circle mages do." Kinloch Hold's chantry had mostly contained apprentices, but there were always a few mages, and even the odd enchanter, all of them praying for deliverance from their magic. "You know, in Tevinter, they think Andraste Herself was a mage."

Hawke snorted. "I'm not Andrastian, love," he said, and scuffed at his face with the hand not currently alight. 

"Careful," Anders said, with a meaningful glance between Hawke's burning hand and the window. Hawke had money, which was more than he had, but it wouldn't be enough. There were noble children in the Circles, same as the commoner's kids, the shepherd's boys. Garrett pulled a face, eyes flicking toward the drapes.

"They can't see _that_ well into here. Trust me, the last time I was at their house for a gala, I broke into their bedroom to check. The line of sight is all wrong." His voice softened. "I wouldn't put either of us at risk like that, love."

Anders nodded, curling into Hawke, his fingers carding gently through Hawke's chest hair. At the back of his mind, Justice stirred; there was a vague sense of disapproval brewing, although whether it was because of his indolence or the source of said indolence Anders couldn't be entirely sure. "I know. I'm sorry. You can call me paranoid, if you want -"

"For a reason," Hawke said flatly, interrupting him. "Maker's breath. It's not paranoia if you're right."

That brought a pleasant glow to Anders's chest. Hawke was wrong, of course: a year in the dark would leave scars in anyone, and he'd not been the same since, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise. He wanted Hawke to think the best of him, however. Justice sent a lancing wave of concern through him, or what Anders guessed was concern, and he saw the way Hawke's eyebrows drew together as he felt the tension in his body. "You're the brightest light in this city," he said, mouth running away with him as it sometimes did, and flushed scarlet when Hawke's eyebrows silently lifted. Hawke waggled his burning fingers, grinning as the light shifted, and Anders groaned. "That wasn't a pun, don't laugh."

"Everything's a pun, if you reach hard enough," Hawke said smugly, and Anders wormed a hand between them and pinched Hawke's hip. His lover squawked like a chicken, jerking underneath him, and Anders grinned mostly for the joy of seeing Hawke smile; it had been a long time. Garrett brought an arm around his shoulders and pulled him down for a kiss, his mouth searching and wet. His free hand was still burning, a bright and heatless flame.

"You're insufferable," Anders told him when they separated. He set a palm over the inside of Hawke's elbow, stroking the thin skin there with his thumb, and then ran a hand up the smooth skin of Garrett's wrist until their palms were entwined, the flames Hawke had conjured licking delicately up their linked fingers and over his lover's scuffed knuckles. With a small tingle of effort he created his own magical fire, a solemn and intense blue that danced with Hawke's for a moment, a confusing snap of contrasting colours until their spells merged and the flames leveled out, purple and steady.

"I'll never understand how people get by without magic," Hawke said, and Anders found himself smiling, somewhat wistfully, at the innocent pleasure on Hawke's face. He turned their clasped hands to admire the sight the flames made, two different mages' spells entwined. Anders concentrated, expending a bit more mana to reach a little further into the Fade, and the flames grew; he saw the surprise on Hawke's face before his lover's brow furrowed and the Fade pulsed correspondingly in Hawke too, levelling out the spells. 

"Neatly done," Anders said, the edge of his mouth turning up.

Hawke's lips quirked in a brief mirror before the smile ebbed away. "Bethany," he said, and cleared his throat. "Um. My sister and I used to do this. To practice. Father said it helped with concentration."

Anders blew out a long breath, watching the fire crackle away, licking brightly over their knuckles. Hawke's were scraped and scarred, his thin and knobbly. "It's an apprentice spell they teach in the Gallows," Anders said. Lisse had taught him that, all of thirteen years old; she'd followed behind him together with her friend, seven-year-old Matias, their soft Circle slippers squelching in Kirkwall sewage as she jogged to keep up. She'd conjured the fire for Matias to keep him occupied at checkpoints, uncomplaining but scared herself. The two apprentices had been the last ones he'd gotten free from the Gallows walls before - well, before Alrik. Before Ella, and lightning in his hands. He hoped she was safe now. He hopes they all were. "Your father was a Gallows mage, wasn't he?"

"I suppose," Hawke said. "... It feels odd thinking of him like that. A Gallows mage, like Sol. He was just - my father, before anything else. He could do magic, but I didn't think of him as a mage. The fire trick was useful, saved us a lot of money on oil lamps and kindling when we were traveling, back when the twins were small." His fingers wriggled between Anders's; thick, strong, calloused - the hands of a man who had never known the high walls and soft whispered hush of a Circle.

Pulling their hands apart, Anders felt the spell break, and sighed ruefully at its loss. He rolled onto his back, staring at the canopy of their bed. At some point Isabela had graffitid her name into the wood. "Nothing, love," he said, and felt Hawke's gaze on his shoulder. "It's just - so rare to find a mage who _enjoys_ his magic, who doesn't feel guilt for it. It's a tough feeling to hold on to, in the Circles."

"Do you regret yours?" Hawke's eyes were gold and sharp, piercing gaze on his.

"No," he said, ferociously. "I was given these gifts for a reason, whatever the Chantry says. They can't have it both ways. Either the Maker is infallible, and does not make mistakes and therefore intended for mages to exist, or He is not, and we are a mistake made by a flawed god not worth worshiping. I don't feel like a mistake. Do you?"

Hawke flexed his fingers, expression pensive. "No," he said, and then nodded suddenly. "No. You're right."

Anders turned onto his side and reached out to lay his hand flat over Hawke's chest, feeling the steady beating of his lover's heart against the heel of his palm. Hawke touched his wrist lightly, barely holding on, and they lay like that breathing in tandem. The Maker may or may not be perfect, Anders thought, but the world He had created was certainly far from it. 

All they could do was their best, for each other and for themselves.

"Magic should serve that which is best in me," Hawke said, and swallowed. "Not that that is most base."

"That's not in the Chant," Anders said. He knew the whole thing far too well. Four walls, a book, and the voices: _blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just..._

"Something my father said." Hawke breathed in, raggedly. _Cry_ , Anders thought, mingled sadness and sympathy. _Go on. You need to, and I'm here_. When Hawke spoke again, his voice was rough, hoarse and cracking. "I miss him. And Bethany. And... and mother. I - Anders..."

"I'm here," Anders said quietly at the first hitched sob, and without words he moved closer, let Hawke draw him into his arms and bury his face in his hair. He wondered briefly if his mother had wept this way, for loss of him, and then pushed the thought back down in the dark. She was gone, as likely dead as not, and this was what he had. Only this.

He felt a curl of something nameless but almost like curiosity somewhere at the back of his mind, and did not push it back. If Justice wished to know more about Hawke, then let him. He could remember the spirit's interest in Kristoff's wife, in the emotions Kristoff had felt; and he wished, as always, that he could talk to Justice about this directly. About Hawke, and shitty romance novels, and Anders who had never claimed to be an expert on love but had fallen for Hawke so hard it frightened him sometimes, much less the Fade spirit at the back of his mind. He couldn't really say what good it might do - he hardly knew the words himself - but it would be _something_ , at the least.

Leandra had given everything up for her Gallows mage. She shouldn't've had to. It shouldn't've been a requirement. Mages ought to be as free to love and be loved as anyone else. Anders wondered how long Hawke had spent telling himself that this life was forbidden to him because of the magic he'd been born with; he wondered if Hawke, too, had been prepared to live alone but for his family. He couldn't exactly ask, but he thought he might know already,

_This isn't right_ , he thought. _This isn't just_.

He curled his hand into a fist against Hawke's shoulder, and the glint of the ring Hawke had given him caught his eye. The Underground needed him. Mages needed him. But Hawke was a mage, too, and for all he'd thought Hawke invulnerable when first they'd met, quick-fire charm and easy humour, he was beginning to see that the man was greater than the sum of his parts. 

He would protect this - protect Hawke, as best as he could. It was a small thing, and it wasn't enough, but after Ella, the taste of lightning in the back of his throat and lyrium burning his veins, it would have to do.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking at the update time and uh, I got nothing. Just fic.
> 
> (Lots of typical Anders self-flagellation in this chapter, fair warning.)

"We're playing for coin," Fenris said, pulling his chair back with a scrape that made Varric wince and setting down his tankard upon the table, " _Not_ clothing."

"Good evening to you too, Broody," Varric said, grinning as Isabela heaved a dramatic sigh of disappointment. "Glad you could join us."

"It's Wicked Grace night," Fenris said stiffly. "Is this all of us?"

"As far as I'm aware," Anders said, watching Isabela cut the deck with less than half the suspicion of Aveline, sitting to the woman's left. Fenris was too tense, and there were too many empty chairs at the table for Wicked Grace night, and the questions hung awkwardly in the air. "... Hawke isn't coming. He had something else he wanted to do."

He'd been in the library when Anders had left, sitting on the floor with his dog and a pot of cold tea, engrossed in the books he'd bought together with the house and never really examined before. "You go on without me," he'd told Anders, and smiled a thin, wan smile. "Not really feeling up to losing my underwear to Isabela this week."

"I could stay here," Anders had offered, ignoring the pale attempt at humour and kneeling next to him to pick up the copy of _Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder_ resting by Hawke's left leg. "I'm quite good at categorising books, you know." 

In his earlier years it had been one of the templar's favourite punishments, back when he was just a snot-nosed kid who had gotten lucky and outfoxed his jailors, slipping right out of the Circle in an attempt to go home; back before it had become a _habit_. Library duty. Potato peeling. Helping the Tranquil take stock in the apothecary. Menial chores meant to teach him an appreciation for the ease of Circle life. It hadn't lasted.

Hawke leaned over and carefully took the book back from him, their fingers brushing briefly but perfunctorily in the process. "Thank you, love," he said, looking at their hands instead of at Anders's face, "I just - I just want some time to myself, for now."

Anders recognised his cue. Part of him felt hurt at the rejection; the other half remembered losing Karl, and throwing himself into his work. Hiding in a different sort of way, he supposed. "Very well," he'd said, calm and even. "I'll be in the Hanged Man if you need me."

Hawke's thumb tickled the edge of the cover. The painting on the front depicted a man in the Kirkwall Guard uniform enthusiastically kissing a blonde woman, pinning her against the wall with the force of his passion. His other hand held a crossbow, loaded, with the tip pointed toward the ground. The title was printed over the top in a gaudy shade of red. Wordlessly Hawke opened the book, and Anders's heart flinched within his chest; there, on the blank page between the front cover and the printer's credits, was a small dedication written in a bright green ink. The handwriting was becoming unfortunately familiar.

"I'm sorry, love," he said, watching Hawke's face: the dull lack of surprise, the way his hair - grown ever-so-slightly shaggy - fell around his eyes. 

"She always said that it was bad luck to gift a book without a note," Hawke said, quietly. "I think I told her...." Garrett cleared his throat. His eyes were heavy on the passage, the curling loops; Leandra had dotted her _i_ 's with small circles. "I think I told her reading something called _Hard in Hightown: Siege Harder_ had to be bad luck all by itself."

Anders had burned all of Karl's letters, the day he'd returned from the Chantry. He'd've burned the knife, too, if he could have, or tossed it from the sewer mouth into the waiting sea - but it was decent quality steel, and his life poor enough that sheer cold-hearted pragmatism had stayed his hand. He hadn't wanted to look at those items, those artefacts of a life he had and a life he wanted and a life he never would; they'd even gone so far, in their stupid shared teenage lover's dream, as to name them - the kids, the cat, even the cottage. 

_No_ , he told himself, _leave it alone_. 

Still. He'd burned the letters, and there was nothing left between him and Karl but the knife. It clarified things, when the templars came through Darktown, smashing up the refugee camps looking for the healer and the spirit inside him felt intoxicated with contempt. He had a feeling this advice would not help Hawke.

"Are you sure you don't want to come to Wicked Grace? Everybody would be glad to see you," he said instead. 

Hawke closed the book and shook his head, and Anders took his leave, heading to a card game between people who weren't really his friends but who still loved Hawke.

"How is he doing?" Isabela asked, splitting the deck in two and letting cards leap around her hands. Anders wished he had even half her talent for sleight of hand, not least because then he might stand a chance of winning a game every now and then - or, at the least, not losing quite so badly.

"He's been better," he said, sipping at his cup of water. "He's been worse, too."

"Mmm," Fenris said, his fingers loosely clasped around the tankard. He hadn't shown up for his reading lessons since Leandra had died. Anders was never present for them - he usually arranged to be out of the house on those days anyway; the thought of Garrett and the elf in the library, surrounded by Hawke's books and comfort and finery, heads bent together - it discomforted him. Usually they left debris behind them, however, rough practice papers adorned with the elf's childish scrawl. Hawke had kept all of the scraps they practiced on, proud as a parent, _Fenris Fenris Fenris_ followed by _Hawke Hawke Hawke_ and then _garet_.

 _Garrett,_ Hawke had written underneath one such attempt, on a page Anders had found whilst setting up for his manifesto.

 _GARET_ , Fenris had written again, in capitals. Anders had snorted; he could imagine Fenris's reaction upon discovering there were such things as silent letters - namely suspicion and then annoyance. He could sympathise, although he hated doing so. He'd been writing since he was seven and he still had to rough out "obsequious" on a scrap of paper before he put it in his manifesto, because sometimes it was the only word he could use for the situation within the Circles.

"Merrill's not with him, is she?" Isabela asked, flicking a card toward him; there was a general hubbub around the table as everyone sat upright and moved their drinks, recognising that a game was beginning. When Anders shook his head, she frowned. "It's not like kitten to miss out on Wicked Grace night."

"I had some food delivered two days ago," Varric said, spreading his hand. "Way I figured it, she's probably tied up working on that mirror. When we last spoke Daisy said she was getting closer to... repairing the damage? Reversing the taint? Well, you know I'm no expert on the magic shit."

Fenris scowled at his hand. "The 'mirror' is a waste of time," he said flatly. "Hers and Hawke's both, for helping her repair it."

"Merrill doesn't think so," Isabela said lightly, tossing Aveline her last card before setting the remainder of the deck down neatly in the middle of the table.

"Most mages don't, until it's too late," Fenris said sourly.

Irritation shot through him. "It's a good thing we're not playing a drinking game right now," Anders said, a little sharper than he'd meant to. "'Fenris moans about mages - take a shot'? We'd lose all our money to hangover cures."

Aveline snorted. "And what would we do every time you whined about templars, down a bottle? No, thank you. I for one have a lot to look forward to in life."

Heat coiled in his belly, and his cheeks felt hot; he thought of the sewers and the gleam of light off the sword of mercy, scared eyes in the dark. Children. Anders bared his teeth and said, "I 'whine' about an organisation that single-handedly - "

"I'm glad to hear that your life's looking up," Isabela said cheerfully and also loudly. Anders clenched his jaw, glaring down at his hand; he was the only mage here, and not a one of them had ever cared. If Hawke were here, or even Merrill - but they weren't. "You and Donnic...?"

"That," Aveline said archly, "Is _private_."

"Not so private," Fenris said, discarding a card, and raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "He tells me he's taking you to meet his parents next week?"

Aveline scowled at him. "That was supposed to - I mean, I - I was waiting for the ideal time to announce it!"

Isabela laughed, shaking out her hair, and lifted her boots onto the table. "Oh, Big Girl, I think experience has taught us all here that your idea of the 'ideal time' is _never_. What were you going to do, wait until you were married and send us all copper marigolds?"

"He thought they were _sweet_ ," Aveline growled.

"Once someone explained them to him!"

"I feel like I should point out that Aveline here is the only one of us to be married," Varric remarked, drawing two more cards, "And possibly soon, twice."

" _I_ 've been married," Isabela corrected him cheerfully. "It... ended. Anyway, Anders is as good as, isn't he?" She propped an arm on the table, smiling like a shark. Opposite her Fenris was scowling down at his cards. "Sometimes I think about it. You and him, snuggled up nice and tight, bound forever... "

"Isabela," Anders hissed, squirming a little under her suddenly intent gaze.

"I don't really think I need to hear any more friend fiction," Aveline said, looking faintly queasy.

"He even has a ring," Varric pointed out helpfully, then shrugged at the betrayed glare Anders shot him. "Sorry, Blondie, gotta stick to the facts."

"Can't you see it? The two of them entwined, supporting each other forever, uniquely connected - spiritually, emotionally, magically... Glowing -"

Fenris lowered his hand, glaring. "Enough," he said.

Isabela sniffed. " _I_ was talking about Anders and _Justice_ ," she said, smirking, and laughed as the table groaned in unison. "Why? Where did _your_ minds go?"

"You're something, Rivaini," Varric chuckled, shaking his head. Isabela's eyes gleamed.

"I'm something," she agreed. "Wicked Grace, by the way."

"What?" Fenris frowned at her over the top of his hand. "It's only been two turns - "

Her smile was the sort of thing Anders suspected sailors saw atop rocky reefs, before their ships were dashed to pieces beneath them. "I guess the deck just favours me, sweet thing."

They laid their hands out, with a chorus of groans and sighs; Anders had, to nobody's surprise, the worst hand of the lot. He glared balefully at the damn six of serpents that seemed to find its way into his hand in every game, and handed the cards back to Varric, whose turn it was to deal. Purely on instinct, Anders found himself looking to his left - but of course the chair still stood empty, and all he saw was Fenris on its other side, scratching at the table with the tips of his clawed gauntlets as he waited for the next hand to be dealt.

Hawke would have loved that joke. He'd've put an arm around Anders's shoulder and made a joke right back, and without him Wicked Grace wasn't the same. It was beginning to become obvious to him that for all their group's pretence at friendship, Hawke was the focus of their arrangement; without him the cracks between them felt gaping, raw. 

_Married_. It was an odd thought, and a disquieting one. He'd hoped... with Karl... He thought, not for the last time, of the letters; neither of them had ever been so stupid as to express something so saccharine in print, not with the templars reading their correspondence, but he'd always dreamed it. _A decent meal, a pretty girl, and the right to shoot lightning at fools,_ he'd told the Warden-Commander; part truth, part distraction. Flirting came easily to him back then, when he was one soul. He'd done it back at the Circle, all the while he thought he might have been Karl's.

A card hit his forearm. "I'm beginning to think I gave you the wrong nickname," Varric said, raising an eyebrow at him when he followed its trajectory. "You can be Broody, he can be Unspeakably Angry About Slavery."

"Rolls right off the tongue," Fenris agreed, deadpan.

"Speaking of," Aveline said, meticulously shuffling her hand, "Thank you for that tip, Fenris."

"You caught them, then?" Fenris sat up, his eyes brightening, and Anders tuned them out, turning his cards over and sighing. Six of serpents. Again.

He lost four more hands before Isabela allowed him to win one, mostly out of pity; Nora came by once to take their drink orders and then Edwina came by a short while later to correct them. "Lovely girl," Varric said, after she closed the door behind her, "But a bit -"

Whatever Nora was they never found out, for the door opened without so much as a rattle to reveal Merrill, standing there breathing heavily; she was pale but for two spots of colour on her cheeks. "Kitten?" Isabela said, sharply.

"Isabela? Oh - is it Wicked Grace night?" Merrill's gaze swept over the table, and she frowned. "I could have sworn it was tomorrow..."

"Better late than never," Varric said genially. "Come on Daisy, have a seat - "

"I can't," Merrill said. "Anders, I went up to Hightown - Hawke said you might be here. Please, you have to come back to the Alienage with me."

Anders frowned, pushing his chair back. "Who's hurt?"

"My neighbour," Merrill said. She still had one hand on the door handle. "Fell - broke his leg, it's awful, the bone's coming right through the muscle -"

Anders hissed, reaching for his coat; his mind was at work, already thinking over the previous breaks he'd seen that had been that severe. "I'll need elfroot, embrium, some other things from my clinic," he said, shrugging into the sleeves. "How long ago did it happen? Is he warm? Who's with him? I - I didn't bring anything with me."

"Don't worry about anything here," Varric said. "I'll settle the bill with Corff."

"And you can add what you owe me to the outstanding balance," Fenris said, with some satisfaction. Anders narrowed his eyes at the elf; at this rate he'd be paying him back when he was dead.

But - "Hurry," Merrill said, and so he did.

* * *

"Anders? Is everything alright?"

Anders paused, halfway through taking off his coat, and twisted to look over his shoulder. Hawke was leaning on the balcony, still wearing his housecoat; with the hallway fireplace providing the only light source it was almost impossible to read his expression. 

"Fine," Anders said shortly, bending down to unfasten his boots. "I'm sorry to wake you, love."

Hawke shrugged, and his slippers whispered on the carpeted floor as he made his way down the staircase, fingers trailing across the smooth lacquered banister. "I wasn't sleeping," he said. "How was Merrill's neighbour? With the broken leg? I take it she found you?"

"She did," Anders said, his mouth thin. "She told you it was a broken leg too, then?"

"It wasn't?" Hawke's eyes narrowed.

Anders slid his feet free of his boot and knelt to peel his socks off, two pairs per foot. "That's what she said, up until we arrived at the alienage. Then she took me into the elder's apartment - what're they called, the Hahren? She calls them 'Keepers' but I know they're not - anyway, she took me into his apartment, and the floor was just... there were elves everywhere. All sick."

Hawke bent and picked his boots up, putting them on the shoe rack by the door for shining, assuming Anders ever actually managed to sleep in later than any of the servants. Warden nightmares made that increasingly unlikely, no matter how late the night. "What happened?"

"Turns out the well was poisoned," Anders said flatly. "I had them go and dredge it after I worked out what was causing the sickness. Six dead rats dumped at the bottom, in a sack with a brick in - and they have a sandstone well, too, a nicer one than Darktown. Merrill apologised for the lie. Said she thought it might be plague."

"Why not tell me the truth?" Anders had demanded, on his knees with the sixth patient of the evening; he'd shucked coat and boots and donned a spare linen tunic two sizes too small to spare his own textiles, and was glad for it. "You can't surely think that _I_ , of all people, might go running to the guard?"

"Someone might overhear us," Merrill said flatly. "I'm sorry, Anders, truly I am; but from what I gather if there's a plague in the alienage the humans lock us in with it and leave us to die. I couldn't risk it."

"You have a poisoning," Anders had argued, "Don't you want to know who did it? You have the rats for evidence -"

One of the elves in the room, a young man who'd been helping Anders move the sick around, snorted bitterly. "The Guard doesn't give a _fuck_ ," he'd said. "You shem only care about shem crimes, sometimes not even that -"

"Not here, da'len," Merrill said sharply.

The elf scowled at her. "Not _ever_ , according to you," he muttered. "They do what they want and think they can get away with it. Not all of us want to sit around waiting for the Creators to sort them out, I swear - "

"Ir abelas, da'len," Merrill said, her chin held high, and the angry elf quietened. "I'm sorry about your sister. This is not the time or place. We could lose many." To Anders she said, "Velandros - the Keeper for these elves, he... he died this evening. That's when I came for you. Until then, we thought it was just - a summer flux. We thought people might get better."

Anders knew better than to say anything. He'd focused on the stricken elves - most of them needed but a simple purging, and clean water, which Merrill could at least conjure if not with the same skill and artfulness as Hawke, but the children and the elderly were sicker, and he channelled panaceas and sent cleansing auras through them until late in the night, drawing on the unique connection he had with Justice and with the Fade. He couldn't fault Merrill for her secrecy, he told Hawke, as they climbed the stairs. "There've been a few plagues in Darktown - genuine ones, not caused by toxic water - but I've managed to quarantine the infected and cure them before they got root. I had to; if I hadn't there'd've been rioting. The guard would probably have been ordered to close down the entrances to the Undercity and cut down any who tried to escape."

Hawke closed their bedroom door behind them, frowning. "I'm not sure if this is unrelated," he said, "But I had a letter from Arianni today, too."

The bed was made and clearly unslept in; the pillows were immaculate, and if not for Dog sprawled bonelessly over the duvet it would have been the most enticing thing in the room. Anders stifled a yawn behind his free hand. "Feynriel's mother?" 

"She wants me to visit her," Hawke said, and for the first time in weeks he looked something other than sad; curious, thoughtful, the face of a man who liked inserting himself into everyone else's business. "I wonder... someone poisoned the alienage water. And the elves are angry about something, some 'shem crime'."

"They won't talk to you," Anders warned him, the words distorted around another yawn; he lifted a hand over his mouth too sluggishly to entirely hide it. "You can try with Merrill, but you're human, love."

"I can still speak to Arianni," Hawke said. He was pacing, small circles in front of the fire. Anders watched him for several heartbeats, fighting back a small relieved smile at the light in his eyes. "And maybe Aveline, too. She might know about any crimes the Guard are - or aren't - investigating around the alienage. Everybody's alive, though?"

"Not the elder," Anders pointed out. "But yes... I saw to everyone I could who reported even so much as a bit of nausea. Merrill's conjuring water for cooking and washing until the sickness passes out of the well-water." He hoped Merrill hadn't been in hiding before; she'd certainly be outed for what she was now, and it only took one elf to gain a sudden burst of Andrastianism and an eye on Templar bounty gold to remove the only source of clean water in the entire alienage. For fear.

Hawke paused. Standing in profile before the hearth, his eyes caught the light; he seemed almost radiant to Anders, although that could be exhaustion speaking. Not for the first time Anders had to just look at the man, admire his own luck. Hawke was handsome. He could have had anyone - Isabela, with her effortless beauty and wicked sense of humour so complimentary to Hawke's own; Merrill, who asked him and only him for help with her mirror; even _Fenris_ , who he supposed was attractive enough for an elf and, while also hunted, did not bring anywhere near the same risk with him that Anders did. Fenris's old master might want him back, but Anders's old masters would take Hawke too, if they knew what he was, and nobody would bat an eye. Would allow it, even.

A wave of indignation and pure cold denial rose within his breast, and not for the first time lately, Anders did not know if it came from himself or from Justice. He turned away from Hawke, breathing in through his nose and willing it back, hands atop his head the way Karl had taught him long, long ago, after the first of his panic attacks.

"I'll talk to Aveline," Hawke decided behind him. His voice was confident. "First thing tomorrow. That ought to give Isabela and Fenris enough time to sleep off their hangovers... and you some time to rest, love."

"Before what, Arianni?" Anders asked, and heard Hawke's grunt of agreement together with the whisper of his slippers on the thick carpets; felt Hawke's hands settle, with surprising gentleness, on his hips. He turned in Hawke's grasp, so that they were chest-to-chest, and set his own hands over Hawke's; the ring gleamed brightly in the fire's light, the same orange hue as Hawke's eyes. That everything turned that colour meant nothing.

 _Married,_ he thought. _As good as_.

He wondered what might happen if he asked Hawke, right here and now; wondered what Hawke might say. The edges of his eyes were creased, in concentration; his eyes were sharp and alert. Anders thought of the Blackmarsh, the shadowy wolves in the dark, and breathed in slowly. Cedar smoke and lavender, from Hawke's clothes. Hawke had told him once that he hated the smell, but Leandra had insisted on packing every clothing chest in the house with small sachets of it. The memory felt like a sour note on a lute, something he was infinitely familiar with, and he couldn't help but cringe back at the reminder: Hawke had experienced pain enough in his short life. Anders had no need to bring him any more than his selfishness already had.

(And it was selfishness, he knew; he needed Hawke, needed his strength and power and affection. He needed it despite the fact that he knew he would bring Hawke pain; he could live without him - but he didn't want to, and was that not what selfishness was?)

"... We should go to bed," he said, squeezing Hawke's hands on his hips gently. "If you'll move your dog."

"Just a moment," Hawke said, and then he leaned forward, and the press of his lips felt so soft against Anders's own that it was, in that moment, the easiest thing to let himself fall a little further into this. Hawke could and did kiss like a hurricane - desperately hard, his hands grasping and squeezing Anders close as his mouth crushed against Anders's; a kiss wet and desperate and so damn _needy_ that it usually left Anders stunned and breathless, sagging against him like a doll stuffed with dandelion seeds. This was not that kiss. It was slow, gentle, _tender_ ; there was so much affection in it that Anders's heart felt like it might burst, it was beating so fast.

All too soon, Hawke released him, and when he smiled it touched his eyes. Anders felt his tongue dart out, tracing the places that still tingled; he touched his knuckles to his bottom lip, trying to hide his smile. "Careful," he said lightly, "Keep that up and people might see the soft heart hidden beneath the scruffy exterior."

Hawke sniffed. "Nothing here but bad jokes," he said. "I just... thank you. For being with me. I know I'm not making it easy, but you've been - incredible, Anders, and I... Well." He cleared his throat, turned back to the bed and shooed the dog off; sat heavily on its side, stroking the mutt's ears as he whined at him softly from the carpet; Anders watched him, remembering himself, three years ago, hiding himself in Ser Pounce whenever anyone dared hit him with any actual _affection_.

"Love," he said, "you don't need to -"

"I want to," Hawke said. He paused, and then, his voice ragged, blurted out, "I love you. That's all. That's, you know, everything."

At the Circle, Anders would have laughed at that. He would have pretended words like that didn't matter, so he wouldn't be hurt if they were taken back, or the person who said them died - emotionally, if not always physically. Plenty of his friends had become the lyrium-branded walking dead who tended the Circle's menial chores, and it never became any less painful. It hadn't always worked, and he was just... tired of it, tired of the pretence, tired of his white-knuckled teeth-gritted grip on those pitiful delusions in the name of safety. Tired of being afraid, mostly. 

He'd taken Justice into himself to give him the strength to fight back against those who would see his kind broken and subdued, and although his mind felt restful - although he couldn't feel any dissent or confusion, any stirrings he could point to and say, _this is Justice_ \- he felt calm and purposeful. He crossed the rug, stepping carefully over the dog, and sat beside Hawke, and knocked their shoulders together as he said, "It's everything to me, too, love."

Hawke smiled at him, and it wasn't the smirk he usually wore. Anders wasn't the only one who hid the hurt. Hawke had not known the Circle, but he was no stranger to that curiously _specific_ kind of loneliness that went hand-in-hand with apostasy. When Anders offered his hand, Hawke took it, and his grip was calloused and worldly but above all else, tight.

Sitting next to Hawke, he could forget, for a little while, about the jeering banter of his friends. He could forget about the sick elves, with their cloudy eyes, and the anger in the young man's face. He could forget about the sack of dead rats in the poisoned water and the sheer mindless cruelty outside their bedroom door. Hawke had a way of making everything feel... safer. Like he could fix it all, if given half a chance.

Whether that was true or not - Maker's breath, but Anders loved him. If the only thing he could offer Hawke was that small and broken part of him - the part that had kept on escaping, that had planned a future with Karl, the part that had gleefully read every smuggled smutty library book - the part that had stood on a mountainside in Ferelden and watched the clouds blow lazily overhead, that long-gone half-blood boy who loved the wind and sky... 

It wouldn't last forever. Even in his selfishness, Anders knew that part of him was dying day-by-day; there was so little room for kindness in him, between Justice and the templars. The underground struggled on, and Hawke was free enough, for now. He would take things as they came.

He could do no less.

* * *

Anders had come to expect many things from Hawke when it came to public decorum, but he did not expect, once Marethari politely closed the door to Arianni's house behind them, to be picked up with a whoop and swung around. He yelped, startled, and Hawke just laughed and pressed a kiss on him as beardy as it was enthusiastic.

"How sweet," Isabela said, somewhat distantly. Fenris was too busy staring at the floor, his hands jittering nervously, from belt-pouch to sword-sheath to the buttons on his shirt. "I do love a good show."

Hawke grinned, releasing Anders and getting ahead of the group in one stride. "We did good work here today, people," he said. "We saved an innocent lad from demons - What's not to celebrate?"

"You did," Anders corrected him good-naturedly. "I was just along for the ride. If it is any help, Justice is... content."

"Still thinks I'm a distraction and a nuisance, huh?" Hawke's eyebrows rose and fell, but his grin did not falter. His left cheek dimpled slightly. It was honestly the most charming thing Anders had ever seen, and he was unable to keep from smiling back, mostly in relief. "It's a shame we were in there for so short a time, I had a whole list of questions I wanted to ask him... mostly about undergarments."

"Attaboy," Isabela said approvingly. It was an unusually subdued comment, for her.

"Did we not deal with enough demons?" Fenris asked sharply. "They speak only lies, and I..." he trailed off, turning his head awkwardly to one side. He seemed to be having difficulty making eye contact with anyone, and Anders hated the guy, but - well. Pride demons were _dangerous_.

"They used blood magic," he said. "The demons, I mean. Remember, that's where blood mages learned it from."

Fenris's gaze flicked to him and then away again. "... It is no excuse. I... if you will excuse me, I want to..."

"Fine," Hawke said, and touched his shoulder gently; he let go as soon as Fenris flinched. "I'm sorry. That was my mistake. I should have asked first. Listen, I'll stop in on you later, at the house, alright? I'll bring stew."

"If you like," Fenris said quietly, and Hawke stepped aside to let him pass. Anders glared at the back of his head, but only briefly. He knew better than to think the experience would teach the elf any compassion for Harrowed mages; but he remembered Pride from his own Harrowing vividly, viciously, and he thought he'd carry that memory with him until the day he died.

"Still sad I'm not getting my ship," Isabela said, with a deep sigh, watching him go. "A proper two-master... Although I like to think I'd name her something better than _Siren's Call Two_."

Hawke laughed. " _Stiff Masthead_?"

"The _Pudding Figger_ has a nice ring to it," Isabela replied, grinning. Anders shook his head, groaning.

"The _Taint Masterer_ ," Hawke tried, falling back to walk in between the two of them as they climbed the wending staircase out of the alienage, and grunted somewhat gleefully when Anders elbowed him lightly in the side.

"The _Saucy Guard Captain_ ," Isabela said. "... Alright, I said that one as a joke, but now I think I might have to."

"Aveline would strangle you with her bare hands," Hawke said cheerfully. He reached out and caught Anders's hand as they walked past his uncle Gamlen's house, entirely naturally; when Anders glanced at him in surprise, Hawke just winked at him. Above them a shutter slammed. "Still... 'I like big boats, I cannot lie'? Really, Isabela?"

"Well, I do," Isabela said, sounding unperturbed. "Blighted demon knew it, too." Fenris's odd eye-contact affliction seemed to be contagious; suddenly the hilt of her dagger intrigued her. "Look," she said, and sighed. "I'm sorry I turned on you in the Fade. That was... Well. It was foolish of me. I mean, I didn't even get the ship in the end."

Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Isabela, it's fine. It was blood magic. Water under the pier, right? Or whatever charmingly pungent saying you nautical types prefer."

"Bridge," Anders said, and hesitated. He had a feeling this was not a conversation for him. They were approaching the large hex in which the Hanged Man stood, and he glanced around; perhaps he could duck into Darktown...

Isabela however had stopped moving; she stood by a market stall watching Hawke with her piercing gold eyes. Her expression was unreadable. "... So that's it? I try to murder you in dreams and you just... let it go? No angry rant? All's forgiven?"

"You're my friend," Hawke said. 

This did not seem to be enough for Isabela. Her lips thinned. "What do you want from me, Hawke?"

"If you'd like to flagellate yourself over it, Sebastian might be able to help out," Hawke said. "That's not what I'm here for. I'm going to need _some_ help winning back Anders's bar tab from Fenris and Varric, consider that repayment enough - but honestly, you're my friend; if I forgave you for the time you promised treasure and delivered spiders I can forgive you this."

A pair of seagulls flew overhead, baying; Isabela watched them go, her face smooth and blank, and then took two steps away from them. "How touching," she said, so quietly Anders barely heard it. "I feel all squishy inside - I might be sick. Go home, Hawke. Find out what colour underwear your apostate's wearing."

"Don't need to tell me twice," Hawke said. "Blue, I think."

"Hah," Anders said, "Green."

"Well, that was a deep and involved mystery," Hawke drawled, and when a smile flickered over Isabela's face he returned it in kind. "Hey - Dumar sent me a letter this morning asking for a meeting, something about Seamus and the Qunari." Isabela flinched at the word - very slightly, but in a woman with as few tells as she had, she might as well have yelped. Anders narrowed his eyes, watching her thoughtfully, but if Hawke noticed he gave no sign. "I know you have your issues with them, but - after I settle that and visit Fenris, I'll be around for a hand of Wicked Grace, if you'll be free? I missed you and the gang."

"'Course," Isabela said, and smiled at him. It looked flawless, which made it immediately suspicious. "Wouldn't miss it. Better get going if you're stopping off at the Viscount's Keep, Hawke; I don't want to miss happy hour."

"See you later, Isabela," Hawke said, and they watched as she shouldered open the Hanged Man's door, raising a hand in a half-hearted wave; she didn't so much as glance back at them. Hawke sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

"You know she's lying about something," Anders said, matter-of-factly.

"She's afraid," Hawke said. He threw an arm around Anders's shoulders, drew him in close; Anders let him. "Most of us are. She'll tell me about it in time, I'm sure." 

"I think sometimes you give us too much credit," Anders said, smiling despite himself. "It's you she's afraid of, love. She's not used to friendship without expectation."

Hawke blew out a long, weary breath. "I'd ask how you know that, but I'm fairly sure I don't want to know," he said. "Clearly when it comes to making friends and - more, I have a type."

" _Ouch_ ," Anders said, and Hawke laughed and kissed his temple, a whisper of beard. 

"I worry about all of you, you know," he said, unusually sober. When Anders glanced at him, his sharp wolf's eyes looked unusually pensive, fixed on the Hanged Man's door. "All of you except her. That's why she's so important to me. This city... it turns everything to shit, you know. I'm afraid for you, with the templars. Merrill's mirror scares me. Varric seems a different man since Bartrand, and half the time I think Fenris would be happy to let his old master catch up with him, if he perished striking the killing blow. Even _Aveline_... but Isabela, she's." He paused, his throat bobbing. "She seems invincible, in a way. Like the wave might break over her head, but when everything's settled she'll be there. She'll be fine. It's nice."

Anders bit back the first few things he wanted to say, instead slipping his arm around Hawke's waist. "You don't stop any of us," he said.

"I have faith," Hawke said. "Not in the Maker, or Andraste. I have faith in all of you. Is that so bad?"

Sometimes Hawke's optimism was touching. Sometimes it frightened Anders half to death. The man was an apostate; he should be cannier than this. "She's a fair weather friend," Anders said, warningly. 

Hawke squeezed him gently. "Sometimes that's exactly what you need, Anders," he said. "C'mon. Let's go see what Dumar wants. With any luck, it'll be just what we need to help the Qunari get out of this city. Wouldn't that be something, huh? Feynriel saved and the Qunari sent home in one day?"

Anders glanced at the Hanged Man's door, frowning. Something tickled at the edge of his mind, some link he could not quite grasp; _it was in a box. A locked box,_ it said in Isabela's voice. Try as he might, he couldn't make it quite fit.

"Yes," he said, turning away from the inn and toward the steps that led up to Hightown, "That would be something indeed."

* * *

"Ow," Hawke said, followed by, "Oh sweet Andraste, _ow_."

"Yes," Anders said, "being skewered alive by a Qunari sword will do that to you. Hold still."

Hawke winced. "I could use some more healing right about now. _Ow_."

"I've healed you about as much as I can. I said hold still and I meant hold still _in general_ , not for any specific procedure." Anders didn't even look up from the wad of paper in his lap, quill skitter-scratching over the surface; Hawke wasn't actually physically capable of moving anywhere at any velocity sufficient to tear open his wound. 

"I'm not dead, though," Hawke said. "Or in the Gallows? Even though I was throwing ice and fire and lightning around like nobody's business. Huh."

"Killing the Arishok gives you certain leeway," Anders agreed. "After you collapsed Meredith came in. She's announced you Champion of Kirkwall. Nobody's quite sure what that means, but it got an awful lot of cheering from the nobility."

Cheering, but whispers too. Hawke, a mage; the nobility was still reeling. Varric had come to visit once or twice, still saturated in Qunari blood, with news. There were templars outside - not invading, just... watching, and Anders's heart was in his throat. He felt sick and ashen with worry, and the mana imbalance from the healing hadn't helped. He wouldn't dare let a Circle healer anywhere near Hawke, but as far as he knew, Meredith hadn't offered any. It was a stalemate, and Hawke the only one who could break it.

The man of the hour was awkwardly pulling himself up one-handed, the other resting in a sling of clean quality linen, and Anders glanced up at him; he was too pale, skin clammy, and he reached up to touch the bandages wound around his chest. "What about you?"

Anders hesitated, and then decided to throw caution to the wind. Once you'd been sharing a man's bed for six months, had told him that you loved him, had held him while he wept in your arms over his mother's death and the guilt he unjustly bore for it - well. He was fairly sure that meant you were allowed to continue to be tender. "You're no more heroic to me today than you were a week ago," he said, very gently. "Maker, Hawke, I thought -" his eyes were suddenly stinging, and he cleared his throat and looked away. He wouldn't cry. He hadn't cried since they cracked open his cell door, after what felt like a lifetime in the darkness, and hauled him out. 

"I'm here," Hawke said, very urgently, and put his hand on Anders's wrist. "Anders, I'm here. I'm sorry. It was the best way, you see? Nobody else got hurt."

Anders glared at him; anger was easier to hold onto than pure blind dread. "Nobody but _you_ ," he said sharply. "That beast split you open like a Feastday ham, Hawke."

Hawke winced. "That bad, huh? You fixed me, though. Well. Mostly. Did I mention _ow_?"

"I have some skill with healing, I suppose," Anders said, his voice hoarse but his eyes thankfully dry. "It looks like my time with the Grey Wardens wasn't completely without merit."

Hawke tried to laugh but trailed off, clutching his ribs. " _Ow_. Again. You know, just saying."

"I said hold still," Anders said, with a sigh. He touched Hawke's good shoulder, pushing him back down. "All our friends are in the library, love. They all want to see you. Be careful. That wound isn't completely closed."

"It's not?" Hawke touched his chest. "I've got an open skewer wound? ... Write Carver, I need him to see this. Hah! He can take his smug -"

Anders lifted his eyes momentarily to the heavens and prayed, somewhere at the back of his mind where only Justice would probably hear. "That sword shattered your shoulder socket, Hawke, and made mincemeat of essentially everything else in the area," he said, and watched Hawke wince. "It's incredibly vulnerable right now. I sutured and closed the muscle layer, and healed everything between. The skin layer I left open so any infection could drain. You need to _rest_ , and let yourself heal. You're going to have a very interesting scar."

"More interesting than yours?" Hawke asked softly, and Anders felt his mouth snap shut. Garrett had found that scar their first night, the thick ridge on Anders's chest corresponding to its twin on his back. It was an old wound, and he hated it, although not as much as he'd hated the grief on Hawke's face when he'd first touched it. That pain was not meant for Hawke. Someday, the templars would find that out.

"... Isabela wants to see you," he said, instead of an answer, and Hawke sighed. "So does everyone else, but Isabela first, I think."

"She came back," Hawke said, and he smiled. "I knew she would."

"Yes," Anders said. He glanced down at the words he'd written. He'd stopped mid-sentence, and he knew he wouldn't be able to continue. "I didn't think she would, I admit."

"Fair weather friend," Hawke quoted, raising his eyebrows, and Anders glanced away. Hawke sighed. "We're a pair, aren't we? Me with too much trust, you with too little."

Anders stared down at the wad of paper in his lap; half his manifesto, smeared here and there with Hawke's blood where he'd touched it with careless hands. He would not take back what he'd said. _You really believe, don't you,_ Merrill had said once, _in freedom, in mages, in good spirits and bad templars._

He had thought for a long time that he believed in people. He was coming to learn that that was not the case. Another black mark against him, he supposed; he knew what they said - bitter, paranoid, obsessed, selfish, _dangerous_. His chest ached. Maybe they were right. Maybe Hawke had made a mistake. Maybe he was broken inside. "She was happy enough to leave you to die," Anders said, making to stand; Hawke caught his hand.

"Anders," he said, and laced their fingers together, squeezing, his thumb spinning the silver ring slightly. "I don't trust easily, but I trusted her. I trust you. I haven't been let down so far."

Anders flushed pink, all the way through; his heart ached within his chest. _I am no demon!_ Justice roared in his memory, while a girl cowered; and then Hawke had been there, calling him, and he was running. Hawke seemed satisfied that this meant Anders could control himself. Anders remained terrified that it was proof he could not. Faith always had been a tricky thing for him to master; he tried to have it in Hawke, and Hawke alone. 

"I'll let Isabela know you want to see her, love," he said, staring at their intertwined hands instead of the expression on Hawke's face. _I will break your heart,_ he thought, but said, "Do you want anything from the kitchen?"

"Water," Hawke said. "You'll come back with it, right?"

Anders hesitated, hand on the door knob, and then smiled. It was easy, when you remembered how. "Yes. Always, for you."

Hawke returned his smile, and maker help him, six months later and his heart still rattled loosely in his chest every time he saw it. He wished, not for the first time, that he was someone different; someone without a spirit rattling around in its head, someone who could love Hawke and only Hawke. Someone who could save his life and keep a bedside vigil over him purely for the love of him without working on a manifesto, because he could not rest, and it was a safer option than looking at the templars outside. He wanted to kill them all. So did Justice. It wasn't what Hawke needed, but it was still what he wanted.

He wasn't good for Hawke. He was splintered and broken and jagged and raw, and the torn pieces inside him jostled against each other, slicing deeper with each passing day, the bits that were Anders and the bits that were Justice and the bits that were both, something more than spirit or man that wanted nothing but violent vengeance... Hawke deserved better. Anders couldn't give him that, as much as he wanted to.

It was a selfish, desperate kind of love, but it was the only type he had left within him; and it hurt, but Maker help him, he was too far gone to stop now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, the hardest part about writing in one single character's point of view is that you're limited by their opinion on everything. Anders, you angst-bucket.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hail to the Champion, baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's like buses, you wait ages for an update and then two come along together! Fancy that.
> 
> Please be aware this chapter contains (brief) discussion of depression, some very brief and very vague implied references to rape and a slightly gross description of injury.

"With this monument we unveil before you today, it is our hope to celebrate not just our new Champion, but also the brave men and women of this city who perished in the Qunari invasion. The attack was as unexpected as it was brutal, and although their forces were seen off by our Champion of Kirkwall - aided by the Templars and the city guard - without the valiant citizens of Kirkwall we would have much more to rebuild. Kirkwall is, and always will be, a grand jewel in the Free Marches, and on this day, as during the invasion, we are all Kirkwallians. May our swords burn ever long with courage. Join me, brothers and sisters, as we recite the chant of light together. Join me, bound by ties of kinship and loyalty, and never may they break."

The crowd below the plinth was almost overflowing, more than a hundred men and women crammed into the stone paving of the docks, and at her words they began reciting the familiar words together, faces turned up to where the Grand Cleric stood at her makeshift podium. To her left, Sebastian’s hands were clasped behind his back, eyes bright with fervour as he leant his voice without shame to the refrain. At her right Meredith stood to attention in full ceremonial armour, her gauntleted arms crossed over her chest and head bowed. 

"It looks sorta heroic," said Varric, folding his arms over his chest and tilting his head as he gazed at the newly unveiled statue. A seagull, unimpressed by the blaze of its sword - enchanted, supposedly, by no fewer than three Tranquil - was sitting on its head.

"It looks sort of _not remotely like a mage_ ," Anders said, "Which I suppose must have been the point. Nobody wants to remember what their Champion actually is, after all."

"You're both terrible at blending in," Hawke said, pulling his hood lower over his face. He was sitting on a crate stamped with Starkhaven's seal, at the back of the crowd; it was a miracle he could see anything through the throng. "Ssh. I'm still bedbound, remember?"

"You _should_ be," Anders muttered.

"If I was, how would I know what they were doing? Besides, I'm sitting down, I'm not doing anything here I wouldn't be doing at home."

Varric sighed. "You're not wrong," he said. "Remind me why you need to know what the Grand Cleric does, Hawke? Meredith I'll grant you, on account of the whole -" he wriggled his fingers to imitate spellcasting.

Hawke frowned. "She's Meredith's boss," he said, "She was Petrice's, too. I want to know her more than I do."

"Telling her she's bloody useless in the middle of her chantry probably hasn't earned you her regard," Anders said. "You're not wrong, obviously, but - be careful."

"I'm a hot-headed apostate mage," Hawke said absently, "without tact or restraint and an inappropriate sense of humour. Which is true, obviously, but I'd like her to think she's got the sum of me."

Varric chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Says the apostate mage who left the house barely three weeks after a vicious skewering, against his healer's advice, to watch the Grand Cleric unveil a statue. Are you sure she's wrong?"

"A statue of a warrior," Hawke said, "and a speech extolling the virtues of the masses, associating the templars and the city guard together as though they were equal sister organisations rather than independent ones, and deliberately linking the concept of the loyalty - future loyalty, no less - to the Chant of Light."

"Magic exists to serve man," chanted the crowd, very nearly in unison, the chant sounding even more alienating coming from a group this size, "and never to rule over him..."

"Hope you weren't planning on taking over Dumar's office," Varric said.

"I don't think I've got the right complexion for the Viscount's crown," Hawke said. "I'm also allergic to being assassinated."

Anders sighed. He had a dull ache beginning just behind his right eye, and he felt a grouchiness he was all too familiar with. "I should hope so," he said. "Can we go? Being near this many templars isn't... easy. For us."

Hawke glanced up at him and then nodded. "Sure," he said. 

He managed to get to his feet and walk unassisted out of the docks, at least. Anders tried not to hover, knowing it wouldn't be appreciated, and not wanting to draw attention to him. All three of them were hooded and cloaked for a reason, Hawke insisting on secrecy. They had come to the dedication ceremony through Lowtown courtesy of Darktown, the better to avoid scrutiny, and Varric had met them at the estate. 

Still, by the time they reached Lowtown Anders could see Hawke was pale and sweating beneath the hood, and so he risked setting a hand on Hawke's good shoulder, sending a small jolt of healing energy through him, just enough to take the edge off and help him home. He couldn't heal the wound the Arishok had inflicted entirely by magic - the wound had been fatal, and the sheer amount of healing energy he had poured into Hawke had given him a nasty case of mana imbalance himself; he'd been seeing hallucinations for days as he played the nursemaid at the estate. He had gone through three lyrium potions right there on the floor of the throne room. More would have killed him, or worse.

Varric split from them outside the service entrance to the Hanged Man, where the beer kegs were brought in from the brewer's wagon. It felt strange to be so close to the inn and know that Isabela wasn't inside it, passed out on a table or in the back rooms or starting her day off with a knife fight. She'd sent a note to the estate last week, the first communication they'd had from her since that argument with Hawke after he'd awoken, and it hadn't been much - a simple "thank you" with fifteen sovereigns enclosed. 

When Bodahn went to deliver Hawke's return note ("keep your boat fund" with the sovereigns glued pointedly to the parchment), Corff had reported she'd cleared out her room and vanished, leaving nothing behind. Not even Varric knew where she'd gone. Hawke had fretted, wanting to find her himself, but Isabela was a master at going to ground, and between this and his poor health, when Varric's various 'informants' reported no trace of her he'd had to abandon pursuit.

Her graffiti still adorned the estate. Despite the many distinguished guests that felt free to drop in on them, to meet their Champion and wish him a speedy recovery, Hawke would never get the bannister sanded down and repainted. 

"Isabela's lopsided portraiture is a fundamental part of this house," he'd said, "like the explosions from Sandal's room, or blond hairs everywhere. From the dog! The dog, Anders, stop glaring at me! Although, come to think of it, some of the hair's quite long..."

(Anders might have objected more to said lopsided portraiture if some of the distinguished guests were not so uncomfortable with it, and there were a _lot_ of distinguished guests in the estate nowadays. Every Comte and Bann in Kirkwall and the surrounding farmland wanted to meet their new Champion, and for reasons Anders couldn't quite understand, Hawke let them come.)

The cellar door was a little stiff, and Hawke leaned on one hand against the wall as Anders shouldered it open, breathing heavily through his nose. He was recovering well, but going through such intensive healing burned up his resources nearly as much as Anders's; and his need to hare off all over the city or sit through a parade of visitors didn't help. The dog had been dozing on the hearth rug. As they came in he scrambled to his paws and barked at them in excitement, but managed at least to refrain from jumping up at them; Hawke dropped a hand to the top of his head and rubbed it fondly as they passed. He was definitely lagging now, Anders noted, and sighed; they had only three hours to go.

Bodahn and Sandal were off for another three days - an Antivan circus had pitched up outside of town, and Bodahn had come, a little cautiously, to Anders to ask for the week off. "It's just - my boy, he does love watching the acrobats, and there weren't any circuses in Fereldan," he'd explained. 

Anders had, somewhat baffled, replied that _of course_ they could have the week off; it was only after Bodahn had gone away looking pleased that he realised that he had just granted leave to Hawke's staff, and that they had asked because they thought he was somehow also their employer. When he'd voiced this, Hawke had just laughed and kissed him. "To the second messere of the house," he'd said, "long may he oversee the boring financial bits," and Anders had hit him - gently - on the thigh with a pillow.

The house felt empty without them, especially because Bodahn, for all his kindly ways, was a master at politely discouraging unwanted house-calls. "You know, I can always tell him to come back another time," he said, knocking his shoulder against Hawke's as they climbed the short staircase to the master bedroom. "Healer's orders."

Hawke snorted. "I'm sure that'd be a real hardship for you, love," he said, wearily pushing the door open. He pressed his hand against his chest, wincing, and Anders reached out and tugged the hood of his travelling cloak down. "Not that you fussing over me isn't much appreciated, but how long will it take for me to be fighting fit again?"

Anders peeled his cloak off; underneath it Hawke was clad in a loose sleeveless tunic, modified by Orana to lace up the side, and a pair of dark breeches. "These wounds take time, love," he said. "You had a Qunari sword right through you. Right through you, I want to repeat, and I'm... it was a lot of damage. I wasn't sure I could fix it. It's not a sight I'll forget easily. I can't rush the healing or it'll heal poorly, and that'll be more trouble for you down the road." 

He unlaced the tunic carefully and pulled it free without jostling Hawke's trapped arm, Hawke lifting his other arm without resistance to aid in its removal, and then began unwinding the bandages around Hawke's chest. The wound itself didn't look awful; some of the skin at the edges was dying, rubbed raw by the cloth of the bandage, and he'd need to debride it before the next healing session; but it was granulating well, the tissue within a healthy wet-looking pink, and there was no sign of infection. "At least you're drinking the cleansing tea," he said. "It would have healed a little better if you had stayed in bed, but... A week, to build up more energy, and then we should be able to close the skin. Lift your arm for me."

Hawke raised his arm awkwardly, pulling a face; Anders set one hand on the meat of his shoulder, the other over the bicep, and 'felt' with a soft trickle of magic for muscle damage. It was holding up surprisingly well, given that most of the initial healing had been done on the throne room floor, Hawke's blood saturating the ground beneath his boots, Aveline holding Hawke steady and Fenris withdrawing the heavy blade slowly at Anders's hissed command, Isabela pushing lyrium potions into his wet red hands whenever he asked for them. He remembered how he'd had to push everything away, letting himself be what he'd always wanted to be, at his core: a healer, with no other concerns than his patient. There had been no room to worry about the gathered nobles or the waiting Qunari, not with all that _damage_ to contend with.

There were a couple of small tears in the long muscles running along Hawke's collarbone, where he'd gestured a little too abruptly with his shoulder while talking to Varric. Anders shifted to stand behind him, the better to reach the anchoring muscles at the shoulder, and sent what little magic he'd regenerated through them, sealing them carefully closed. The bones themselves had healed beautifully, without even so much as a hair's width crack to show how brutally they'd been mistreated. Hawke was on two elfroot potions a day at half-cup strength, and double rations of food to provide the energy for this hasty healing, but it seemed to be working. 

"That tingled," Garrett said reproachfully.

"Sorry, love," Anders murmured. He ran a hand along the sweeping curve of Hawke's upper arm, his palm cupping the dense muscle there. Less of that than on his uninjured side; three weeks of forced confinement to the sling had helped stabilise his shoulder but Hawke would need to make up for it once the danger was past. He leaned forward and kissed Hawke's back, an inch away from the gaping pink gash that was all that was left of the wound to the untrained eye.

"So?" Hawke turned his head to catch his eye, eyes eager. "How long until this can come off?" He lifted his arm in its sling and Anders looped his arms around his waist, resting his forehead thoughtfully against the sharp jut of the top of Hawke's spine.

"We'll take it off in a fortnight," he said, and when Hawke writhed in excitement, squeezed him gently. "You won't be fixed in a fortnight, sweetheart. It'll take time after that to build up your strength safely. I know you're impulsive, but if we mess this up, you could really hurt yourself." His thumbs moved without his conscious permission, stroking over the thick dark hair of Hawke's stomach. "Day after tomorrow we'll start some exercises to get you building up your strength. Another six weeks after that before you can go traipsing across Kirkwall getting into trouble."

"But trouble is so much fun! Just think, it's been at least a month since I've walked into a bear trap for the sake of six silver and a pair of torn trousers," Hawke said. 

"You could stand to say no," Anders said, the corner of his mouth curving upward. "Go on, get in bed. We have about three hours before Sebastian comes visiting. I'll get you something to eat. Or I could send the dog over with a note telling him we don't want him in this house."

Hawke sat gingerly on the edge of their bed. "As amusing as the image of Dog slobbering all over that white armour is..." he held out a hand invitingly, and Anders sighed and took it, watching the way Hawke's thumb rubbed over the back of it, drawing lines between the cluster of freckles. "I need to see him, love. Keep your friends close, and all. Not that Sebastian _isn't_ my friend - I know, I know, stop pulling that face. We both outed ourselves after that duel, you know, not just me. Meredith only elevated one of us. To stay safe, we need to make nice with the Chantry."

Anders flinched. "I know," he said. Bancroft had written him a handful of times since Leandra's funeral, although Anders never replied. He knew they wouldn't let him go so easily; they couldn't afford to. Men and sympathy were hard things to find for them, the public suspicious and mistrustful of magic still. He sent Selby a small portion of his clinic's donations from Lirene from time to time in lieu of his physical presence. He didn't trust Justice, or Vengeance, not yet. What if Justice broke free like that, blind with rage, when Anders was alone, shepherding scared mages through sewers filled with Carta? He knew, without knowing how, that Hawke was the only person the spirit would listen to, and he would not put Hawke in danger this way. He couldn't.

"You know, being Champion could be a good thing. I'm an apostate, and yet I saved them all without sacrificing any children to dark forces! I free slaves, carry out work for the city guard, rescue mabari pups from trees, tell the best jokes..." As if reading his mind Hawke lifted Anders's hand, still clasped to his, to his mouth and kissed his knuckles, a gesture he knew Anders had a weakness for. "I work closely with a selfless Grey Warden healer who runs a free clinic for the poor and dispossessed. I'm also handsome myself, not to mention witty and charming, with decent teeth and not entirely awful dancing -"

"So you claim," Anders said, smiling despite himself, and despite a flutter of concern he couldn't identify, "So this is your plan, then? Charm the nobility into seeing us as people?"

"In part," said Hawke. "Charm's worked well for me so far. Along with the bad jokes. And the ability to pick someone off their feet with my mind, slam them into the walls, and then electrocute them and set them on fire at the same time. Work with what you know, eh?" 

"... You should probably try avoiding that," Anders said, and tugged gently at his hand, still caught in Hawke's, until Hawke let go; he stood up straight and arched his back, popping a few kinks out of his shoulders. "I'm going to go get you some water. Try to get some sleep in before that tedious prince turns up, if you can. It'll help you heal faster."

"You could keep me company," Hawke said in a low voice, spreading his legs, and ruined the effect by yawning hugely. "Or not. Ugh."

Anders laughed. "Much as I'd love to, I'm not tired, and you need the rest. I'll be back in a moment, love."

By the time he returned with the water, Hawke was passed out diagonally across the bed. He still had his boots on. Anders left the cup on the night table next to his head (technically on Anders's own side of the bed), pulled his boots off, and tucked a fold of the blanket around Hawke's feet, shaking his head as he did so. Hawke _oozed_ in his sleep; it was unsurprising that without Anders there to fight him off, he'd claim as much space as he could. It brought a fond smile to his face to see.

He realised he was standing there mooning over Hawke, and felt the familiar static tingling at the back of his head that usually meant the spirit inside him wasn't happy. It was another sobering reminder that he needed to be careful with this, with Hawke. Ella's face would haunt him for a long time, a memory he'd hold on to together with Karl's sunburst brand, or Hawke, choking on his own blood and numbly holding the hilt of the Arishok's sword against his breast with one hand, the other reaching out to launch the final blast of lightning that would end the Qunari. He'd tried to get to Hawke, even before the battle was over; Fenris and Aveline had grabbed him tight, Fenris hissing _we must respect the Qun!_ in his ear in a ragged voice.

Anders knew that, logically speaking, Fenris had been right. The Arishok had challenged Hawke to a duel alone. Anders may not be an expert on the Qun, but any fool knew how much faith they had in words, and how harshly they looked down on oath breakers. That hadn't made it any easier, watching Hawke reeling, red blood pouring down his boots, three feet of scarlet steel protruding straight out of him, unable to go to him until the Qunari declared the duel over.

 _Don't think about it,_ he told himself. _Put it away, with the other memories. Don't live in them._

The static feeling only increased, and, not wanting spirit-fire in his bedroom or indeed anywhere near Hawke, Anders went to find something to do. He could probably finish organizing his collection of potions and poultices, since Hawke's healing and recovery had left him so drained of magic he'd had to resort to leaving most of them in baskets in his clinic with signs advising what each potion would help with. Even though he'd been spending most of his time here with Hawke, thieves had been politely discouraged by the presence of Hawke's dog sleeping in the clinic while it was unlocked, whom Anders had never asked for and still wasn't sold on. Hawke hadn't said anything about it, so neither would he.

It was strange, the way he was beginning to adapt to this - to their partnership. It unnerved him, and yet sent a small thrill through him at the same time. It had been so long since he had an ally outside of his own head, someone willing to fight with him. _I am not alone, I am loved._ Sometimes he felt it bubble up in his chest, the relief, the gratitude, the simple shock that someone out there had found it in themselves to love him, despite what he was, despite what he'd done. He tried not to take it for granted. He found himself toying with the silver ring, and cupped his hand over his chest, head bowed for a heartbeat, then two.

He hoped he proved worthy of Hawke's regard.

* * *

Two weeks later, the sling came off for good, and with the wound as closed as Anders could get it he finally pronounced Hawke fighting fit. In typical Hawke fashion, Garrett chose to celebrate this by heading out one night with Aveline, Fenris and Varric and getting into a fight with one of the Lowtown gangs; he came back bruised, winded, and complaining of soreness in every muscle, and Anders, who had been up half the night with worry, refused to speak to him until afternoon the following day, when Hawke slipped into the library with a cup of tea and an apology.

The city itself began to shed the shock of the invasion, and reconstruction work commenced mostly around the docks, which had been savaged by what Anders supposed had to have been the famed gaatlock he'd heard so much about. Aveline's guardsmen caught a number of suspicious types peeking around the ruins of the compound looking for samples, and in the absence of a Viscount to give orders, Seneschal Bran turned to the Knight Commander, who ordered them hanged. This was not a popular command, and there were some minor demonstrations outside the Chantry that only ended when the Grand Cleric herself emerged to give a speech about patience.

Bancroft wrote to Anders reporting that following his aid with the Qunari threat, Meredith had chosen to reward Orsino by allowing the Gallows mages to leave their cells for a brief period of mingling - timed and staggered and watched over the entire while by the templars, of course. Bancroft also reported something much more disturbing: while the Underground had been smuggling the most at-risk mages from the Gallows, Orsino himself had evidently been busy, for Kirkwall's templars had recently received a visit from no less than three Seekers of Truth.

 _Sadly they were as much use as nipples on a breastplate,_ he wrote to Selby in his usual blunt manner, in a letter coded with the usual cipher; Anders had stopped off by the courier company she managed as a front in order to deliver a basket of lyrium potions for the Underground. With his body still recovering from a overdose of the stuff, and the mana imbalance, it wouldn't be safe for him to consume any for several months. The Underground always desperately needed them for bribes, anyway. _They interviewed all of two mages and three Tranquil, all provided for them by the Knight Commander, then left with a dossier on blood magic used within Kirkwall in the last three years. That blasted incident with the serial killer who dismembered all those women will be used to silence us, you can be damn sure of that._

Leandra. Anders had a feeling Hawke's reaction to this piece of news would be somewhat less than kind, and resolved to keep it from Hawke if he could; the last thing he wanted Hawke hearing was that his own mother's murder was considered acceptable justification to oppress people like her husband or two of her children.

"We were fools to expect that the Chantry would regulate its own," Selby said, when he finished reading; he made to pass her back the letter and she shook her head. "No, burn it, pet. Can't have something like that lying around."

"Do you remember the apostates we smuggled out?" Anders asked, doing as she asked. The ashes rained down onto the weathered wooden floorboards, creaking and knotted; Selby passed him a hand-brush and metal dustpan and he knelt to sweep them up. "We got them to write accounts of Gallows life - what happened to those documents?"

Selby sniffed, eyeing him. "Thought you were well out of the fight," she said. "A kept man now, aren't you, up in Hightown?" 

Anders flushed. It stung because it resonated; without the Underground or his clinic to distract him he spent most of his time busying himself with minor chores and with Hawke, allowing his connection to the Fade to heal slowly but surely from the massive abuse of it incurred keeping Hawke from dying. Hawke had never implied that it bothered him, but accepting his hospitality and kindness bothered Anders, sometimes. "You must know what he really is. Everyone else seems to, despite that awful statue they've built down at the docks."

"That I do," Selby agreed, scowling. "And he might be slippery as grease and with a tongue too clever by half, but he did help us with that nasty snarl with Ser Conrad. Don't see why he couldn't help us with more, but for you."

They'd quarrelled about it at the time; Anders hated that Hawke had been involved even that much with the Underground's activities. It had been in those long summer weeks before they had become lovers, back when they were still pretending just to be friends; Hawke jokingly referred to that period as 'the aching years' and Anders, despite rolling his eyes, couldn't help but agree. "If the templars come for you after this," Anders had said, fretfully; "I am grateful - truly, for what you did, but they will kill you. Even a non-mage might face the noose."

"They'll hang me if they catch me anyway," Hawke had said. They had been in the Hanged Man at the time, waiting for Varric to finish up a meeting and sitting at a too-small table in the taproom with several others of Hawke's friends; Anders had been acutely aware of every inch of Hawke's thigh pressed up against his own, and that Hawke had chosen to sit next to him of all people. "I've been an apostate too long. Turns out that's one of the things they take seriously. Well, that and the skirts-only dress code. Do you think it's meant to be solidarity with the mages? In which case I have to wonder why the templars aren't wearing those hideous plucked-chicken hats."

"Don't change the subject," Anders had said. "I worry about you," and Hawke had laughed and clapped his shoulder with his hand, but his eyes had been pleased. 

"This matters," Hawke had said. Just that, like it was enough. That right then had been when Anders decided to bring his problem with Alrik to Hawke.

"Hawke is a good man," he told Selby, quietly, and her gaze flicked up and then down; she nodded slowly.

"He must be," she said. "The documents... I thought you were finished with them, for that manifesto of yours?"

"I was," Anders said, "I just thought... I might be able, now that Hawke is the Champion, to secure a private audience with the Grand Cleric. Having the documents with me ought to help me plead our case much more effectively."

Selby pulled a face. "I can have them sent over closer to the time, but if the Seekers wouldn't do anything, I don't bloody well think Her Holiness will, either. You know what happened after the Seekers left? Meredith revoked the mingling privilege. Said it was being abused. Right back to confinement in their cells, those poor loves." Selby paused. "She's branded two more mages this week, you know."

"Only two?" Anders said bitterly, and frowned as Selby winced; he kept forgetting about her sister. "I'm sorry, I didn't -"

"Never you mind," Selby interrupted. "Two mages, yes. One of them was Harrowed. We need you back, Anders."

Anders stared at her, remembering: sunburst brand and Karl's flat, lifeless eyes, and later Hawke frowning at him, _doesn't chantry law make it illegal to make a Harrowed mage Tranquil_? He'd thought it was all Alrik, somehow sneaking the brandings through under Meredith's nose. His stomach roiled, and he could feel Justice stirring in him sluggishly, a vague insistent demand at the back of his head that he march upon the Gallows and end this; he turned away sharply, breathing through his nose, and flinched at a distant memory of Ella's frightened scream. "I can't," he said thickly. "Last time, with Alrik..."

"Nobody's going to miss that bastard," Selby said. "So what if you killed him? There's worse you could've -"

"And nearly did," Anders said flatly. "I can't do it. I can't. I'm sorry. You know I would if I could, Olivia."

The use of her real name set her back, he could see it in the way her fingers twitched; she folded her arms over her chest and frowned at him. "Fine," she said. "I'll send you the documents. Have it your way. It'll take some time to dig them out of storage; when is your meeting with that windbag Grand Cleric?"

Anders breathed a sigh of relief. Selby had been his induction point to the underground; Bancroft might be more persistent but Selby was the one whose opinion mattered. "I'm not sure," he said. "I'll see if I can get Hawke to set one up."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Selby said, looking him up and down. Her arms were still folded over her chest, her entire posture hunched: doubting, disbelieving.

"Does anyone?" Anders shot back.

She grunted, turning away, and he supposed it was as good an answer as any.

* * *

Two days later, a courier turned up at the doorstep of the Hawke estate bearing a wax paper package sealed with a blob of formless wax, and when Bodahn brought the package to him over breakfast Anders opened it right there at the table. 

"Looks... meaty," Hawke said, nodding his head at the documents: paper of all qualities and sizes, covered in scrawling scratchy print, blotted here and smudged there. He tore another chunk off his bread roll and dipped it into the yolk of his fried eggs, eyes scrunched up as he tried to read the sloppy penmanship upside down; Anders gently tugged the parchment away from him. Hawke in privacy was a messy eater, particularly with egg yolk. "What is it?"

"A witness statement about templar abuses at the Gallows," Anders said, leafing through them. "I was there when they were written, but I want to take them to Elthina. An old... associate of mine was holding onto them for safekeeping. I didn't want to bring Underground business into your house, love."

"Your house too," Hawke pointed out, his mouth full of crumbs, and swallowed hastily at Anders's expression. "Sorry. Damn good eggs, you should eat yours. Has Elthina finally agreed to meet with you?"

"No," Anders said flatly. "Not yet. Every time I walk into the Chantry she abruptly seems to recall some errand she needs to run instead; that arse Sebastian's influence, no doubt."

Hawke frowned. "Are you sure you don't want me to arrange something?"

"Absolutely," Anders said, lifting up the topmost sheet of paper and his eyes scanning the one underneath. He had to speed-read them; every unjust and cruel act detailed within these pages had his heart pounding and Justice rising up beneath him, an iron tang in the back of his mouth like blood, and Maker help him, with some of the details in these accounts he almost didn't want to stop his friend anymore. 

It took him some time to notice that Hawke had gone oddly quiet; when he glanced up his lover was half-heartedly sopping up the remaining yolk on his plate with his half-eaten bread roll, his elbow on the table and his head resting against his closed fist. Leandra had been furiously strict about the elbows-on-table rule, so this alone warned Anders something was amiss; it was only when Hawke glanced up at him and then back at his plate immediately that he realised that something was _them_. He set the pages he was holding down gently and laced his fingers together, resting his hands on the table. "Hawke?"

Hawke abandoned the bread roll as a bad job, and sighed so deeply his shoulders moved. "I wish you'd let me help you," he said.

"I'm sorry," Anders said quietly.

"It's not like you have my secret to protect anymore," Hawke pointed out. "All of bloody Kirkwall knows what I am. You can't escape the gossip - I'm their curiosity. Their tame mage. Maker's breath, Dulci Du Launcet actually asked me to perform magic tricks at Fifi's birthday gala this year!"

Anders blinked at him. It was a measure of how rattled he found the declaration that all he could manage was a startled, "Did you say yes?"

"Of course not," Hawke said, with scorn. "But only because I'm a nobleman, and it's against the unwritten social rules. I convinced her to hire some Gallows mages for the evening. They need to see magic as a thing of beauty, and the poor bastards at the Gallows need to see more of the world outside their bloody prison." He ground the heel of his hand against the table, still glowering down at his plate; then burst out, "You know it matters to me too, your work?"

"I've never doubted," Anders said quietly. He remembered Hawke resting against his chest, those nights after Leandra died; the hand his lover set alight, to banish the dark and the cold. "Hawke..."

"No," Hawke said, "Please listen. When my father died, I - I didn't know what to do. You know about Bethany, my sister; she was my best friend, and she just... shut down, stopped talking, stopped practicing magic, stopped _everything_ but going to the Chantry, and I didn't... Maker's breath, I didn't know what to _do_. I thought he'd be there forever, and then he wasn't, and Carver was glowering at me and mother was crying and Bethany was just so _quiet_. I... saw a lot of fear demons in my sleep, for a long time."

Anders's heart hurt. He reached out to touch the back of Hawke's hand, his fingertips sliding over the dark hair; Hawke's throat worked and his eyes flicked downward but then away again. "You did your best by them, Hawke," he said gently. "Nobody who saw them could have doubted any less."

The corner of Hawke's mouth twitched up. "Thank you," he said, "But that wasn't my point. I was just... so scared. I was in charge of them all - in charge of Bethany, too, and at night the demons wouldn't leave me alone, and I... I doubted. Father always taught us to hide and conceal our magic; I know he was always disappointed by my affinity for... _physical_ spells, and the job of keeping us safe, it - it felt too _much_.

"The twins were six years old when we arrived in Lothering, and my father worked so hard to keep us safe. They barely remembered _before_ \- but I did. I remembered the fear, the uncertainty, keeping a bag by the window and knowing all the escape routes by heart, planning ways to flee in case of the inevitable. We moved around so much, to keep hidden, to keep safe, and I was always aware that it was... because of me. That I was responsible. Father, too, but he was in such command of his magic; I was the one who breathed smoke when I was angry, who accidentally electrocuted metal things when I was anxious... I," and he swallowed. "I blamed myself."

Blue cracks split across Anders's skin; he watched them spread with eyes that were no longer entirely his own, and in a voice echoed by a deep, implacable demand, said, "You were not to blame."

Hawke lifted an eyebrow, but did not move his hand away. "Is this a subtle hint that my breakfast table needs more candles, Anders? Or am I speaking to Justice?"

"We are both," they said. "We have told you this. You are not to blame for the oppression of mages."

Hawke chuckled. The response confused them, and so they fell back, breaking away like the icy film on deep water; the blue veins faded from Anders's skin and when he blinked he saw the world as it was again, drab and monochrome, not tinged with blue except for the lyrium. "Thank your other half for the vote of confidence for me," Hawke said.

"He's me," Anders said.

"Then thank you," Hawke amended. He finally uncurled the first he was leaning on, moving it gently to cover Anders's hand on top of his own; his palm was calloused and fitted perfectly against Anders's knuckles. "So anyway, there I am, half-an-orphan, Carver skulking moodily in the background and Bethany spending half her time at the Chantry and beginning to ask questions like, 'do you think the Circles are truly that bad,' Fear demons in my dreams... I started to think about handing myself in. I knew they'd hang me at best, brand me at worse, but it seemed like I was trouble just by breathing. I - no, Anders, let me finish," he added, raising a hand when Anders opened his mouth. "I survived three years of this by telling myself that I couldn't so long as my family needed me. Father told me to keep them safe, you see. Fat lot of good I've done at that."

He smiled when he said it, and that made it worse than outright weeping. Holding onto his hand didn't seem enough; Anders breathed out and shaped a small portion of his regenerated mana into a cleansing aura, a gentle spill of nourishing energy radiating out from his presence. It wasn't as good as an embrace, but Hawke did not look like a man in need of an embrace right now. "You heard Carver, love," Anders said, gently. "You did your best. You tried your hardest. I know it's poor consolation, but there's no use hating yourself for this."

"Makes me feel a little better," Hawke quipped. "After all, every story needs a villain - why not myself, just to keep things exciting?"

"This isn't a story," Anders said, and Hawke's horrid don't-look-at-me smile slowly ebbed away. "I was a coward too, before Justice. It took supernatural help for me to face my fears, but you - you did it."

Hawke scratched at a flake of drying egg yolk on his plate with his thumb. He'd spilled some on the lapel of his housecoat, Anders noticed, rather bizarrely given the nature of their conversation; he hoped Orana could get it out of the silk. Hawke could afford to replace it, of course - could afford to do so a hundred times over - but Anders had lived too long in Darktown. He let his hand slip further up Hawke's arm, to his wrist. "Meeting you changed everything," Hawke said. "Before I - I was scared. I was so scared. 

"After Bethany died, I... it felt like fate. Of course she couldn't be allowed to live, no matter that she was good and kind and young; she was a _mage_. I don't even believe in the Maker, but it felt... understandable. Maybe we were doomed. I walked into Kirkwall wanting only to provide for my family; I spent a year indentured for Carver and for Mother, and I committed myself to funding the Deep Roads intending... well." He grinned, toothily. "The opposite of what happened, I suppose. Two brothers walk in, one walks out - set for life. Funny how that works, isn't it?"

"Hawke," Anders whispered, and Hawke finally lifted his head and looked him dead in the eye. His eyes were burning; molten gold in the morning sunlight, the slash of scarlet over the bridge of his nose seeming almost to glow - Anders remembered watching him paint it on himself during his fight with the Arishok in his own blood, and now he wore a cosmetic version everywhere; whispers in the city below called it 'the symbol of the Champion,' and there were more than a few noses painted in imitation amongst the children in Lowtown.

"I met you," Hawke said, "and for the first time I felt like maybe I wasn't a mistake. You talked about corruption and cruelty and injustice and I - I began to see it, to genuinely see it, in everything around me. You _changed_ me, Anders. I'm still scared. But I'm beginning to see the pattern of things, do you see? I want to help you. I want to support mages, our people - because I know that we are _worth_ it."

"I can't ask you to put yourself at risk like this," Anders said, quietly. Was this what he had done? Made his lover into a soldier? Warped Hawke into a follower? There was an acrid taste at the back of his mouth, and the collar of his feathered coat dug into the back of his neck; his pauldrons felt heavy, weighting him down. "You're free at Meredith's sufferance only, you know this. That you _are_ free is example enough, love."

"I know," Hawke said. "I know I can't join you in your midnight raids on the Gallows and your bribing templars and your frontline work. But I know what I am: I'm a hero, albeit one who spills egg down himself. I'm _charming_. I'm also a blue-blooded Ferelden from an old Marcher name. Let me use what I have. Let me get you that audience with Elthina."

 _Say no,_ Anders's first thoughts whispered. Hawke couldn't... it wasn't... it was too dangerous. He couldn't put Hawke at risk like that. He stared unseeing at the chicken scratch pages scattered out before him, his mind restlessly circling itself; the words on the page pricked his vision here and there: _and then Ser Karras said..._

_Ser Alrik had his hand on my thigh..._

_Said I'd get the brand, but I was Harrowed! I never experimented with blood magic, I swear it, I swear -_

_I loved her so he took her away from me, and he'll take me next -_

_She hits me every day, but she's careful not to leave any marks -_

He breathed in slowly, and smelled ozone and lightning and smoke, and watched at the cracks grew and splintered. Colour began to bleed out of the world as their eyes burned, and the Fade sang within their very bones; the yellow smear of yolk, the rich brown of the table, the scarlet drapes - all these things faded away. The mortal world had a strange sort of beauty in it, but its lure came not from the mundane. They looked down at their hands, bleeding light across the room; and then looked up at their fellow mage, their (lover) ally. In this light, Hawke shone; the lyrium within his blood painted him in golds and reds, bright and warm and alive, and they felt their mouth curve up in a slow smile. 

"Yes," they said.

Hawke grinned savagely, his cheek dimpling. "I'm glad we have that in agreement," he said. "I'll speak to Sebastian and get an appointment for you."

They tilted their head, puzzled. "Only for us?"

He pushed his plate away. "I'm afraid so," he said, "Last time we spoke I might have told her she was useless. Something to do with refusing to force Meredith to investigate Alrik. Also her indifference about Petrice; the Qunari might have attacked anyway, what with their stolen book, but Petrice didn't help, the old schemer. Besides, I've read your manifestos; I have faith in you."

"We are Justice," they said. "As you should well know. Faith is another body entirely."

"Well," Hawke said, with a note of glee in his voice, "I think you'll find when it comes to your meeting with Elthina, it will be _just us_."

The spell snapped; the bright colours that made up Hawke's palette faded back into pale normalcy as Justice gave up his hold on Anders. The lightning-blue cracks chased themselves clean away as though they had never been there; if not for the faint scent of lyrium and lightning Justice might never have emerged at all. Anders stared at Hawke, torn between embarrassment and amusement. "You just scared away a spirit of Justice with a grammatically incorrect pun," he said.

Hawke took a sip of his cold tea and set his hand on atop the table between them; Anders took it on reflex, pressing his fingertips to the shy fluttering pulse of Hawke's wrist and unable to look away from his lover. Hawke was smirking, and he was beautiful and bold and so brave. "Good thing I didn't ask him the underwear question after all, then," he said.

"We share a body," he pointed out. "Surely if you know what underwear I am wearing you ought to know what underwear _he_ is wearing."

Hawke leaned closer. Anders tried to ignore the yolk on his lapel, concentrating on the creases at the edge of his eyes, the playful flush of colour over his cheeks. Hawke's thumb, calloused and rough, was gently tracing the silver sigil ring on his finger, following the band with ticklish gentleness. "It's been a while," Hawke said. "I might need to refresh my memory."

Anders groaned. "Varric can never know that line worked on me," he decided, and Hawke laughed, and then they were kissing, Hawke's mouth wet and warm and familiar beneath his, and he tasted like lyrium, and he was all Anders had ever wanted.

He wasn't such a fool as to think everything could be so neatly resolved, but for now, it was enough that he was not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never underestimate how far Hawke will go to shoehorn in a terrible pun.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are multiple unwelcome house guests, and Hawke flirts like the Champion he is.

He had been awake for nearly twenty hours when Varric strolled into his clinic via a door Anders distinctly remembered locking not two hours prior. "Evening, Blondie," said Varric with his usual charm, and then ruined it by adding, "or technically morning. You look like shit."

"And here I thought you'd like my hair like this," Anders said, rubbing at his face. Nightmares last night, in the chittering dark, of things hiding underneath the ground; he'd woken blazing with spiritfire, startling both Hawke and the dog so wildly they'd fallen off the bed: then a messenger pounding on the door before dawn, desperately seeking the Champion's aid with a missing girl, and he hadn't been able to get back to sleep after. He'd been in the clinic since seven bells. Seven bells _yesterday_. "Styled it just for you."

"Surprised Hawke hasn't come to drag you off."

"He came," Anders said, gesturing to a half-empty food basket left on an empty cot. They'd shared a meal and then Garrett had had to go, although he hadn't been happy about it. Anders had argued that it didn't make sense for both of them to be exhausted come the dawn.

"Well, he does seem kinda fond of you, you know," Varric said, making his way over to Anders's side. Anders reached out to the patient on the cot before him, his palm glowing a brief blue as he passed it over the man's forehead. "What happened to this poor bastard?"

"He fell off a roof and landed on his head," Anders said. "I healed what I could, but - the brain is very difficult. I'm hoping he'll wake up soon." No guarantee of that, or even of what state the man - kid, really, he was barely eighteen - would be in if he did. This was definitely his least favourite part of being a healer.

"Shit." Varric scratched the back of his neck. "And how long's that gonna take, Blondie? 'Cause you look like a man who kinda needs sleep himself right now."

Anders shrugged one shoulder, folding his arms over the edge of the cot and pillowing his chin on his wrists. "Long as it takes," he said, and yawned. "What are you doing in Darktown at two bells in the morning, Varric?"

"I brought you those books you wanted," Varric said. "And I thought I'd just check on my favourite healer. Hawke is passed out on a couch in my suite snoring, you know." Varric carefully set a package down next to him, wrapped in oilcloth and tied with cheap twine; Anders sat slowly upright and reached to touch the knot holding it all together. "Had to import them from Orlais. Wanna tell me what they are?"

"Your informants didn't already?" The oilcloth was sleek and the twine a little damp - it was raining in the city above. Hopefully the sewers wouldn't back up and flood the undercity. Anders was too tired right now to handle emptying out his clinic.

Varric just folded his arms and shifted his weight, Bianca's glossy metalwork shining in the light of the clinic brazier, and Anders sighed. "Thank you for taking care of Hawke," he said. "One of the books is a treatise on spirit possession, from the Imperium. I thought it might shed some light on my situation. My Tevene is a little rusty, however, so the second is just a translation key: a dictionary from Nevarra."

"Spirit possession. Because of that girl you almost killed?"

Anders flinched. "Don't."

"Far be it for me to try to convince you to do something productive with your time, instead of rehashing the past," said Varric, "but Blondie, have you ever considered doing something productive with your time instead of rehashing the past?"

"Justice isn't the past. He's the present, and probably the future, too, if I don't - if I don't stop this. My anger is corrupting him, I'm sure of it." That static feeling was back, tingling through the front of his brain: disapproval, Anders thought, and disappointment. The latter at least came as no novelty to him. "We're getting along better, but what if next time he doesn't listen to Hawke? He's... Varric, it's getting easier and easier for him to come to the surface. What if -" He cut himself off, but Varric tilted his head to one side.

"So... he comes out to play once and that's it? You're going to try dangerous magic based off books in a language you don't read?"

"You've been telling me to move on for years," Anders snapped, and regretted it. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, his right resting on the package holding his books. "I'm sorry, Varric, I get snappy when I'm tired."

Varric snorted. "Yes," he said, "you're certainly never snappy any other time. It's fine, Blondie. Hawke said you slept like shit last night."

"It's good to know that Hawke gossips like a Chantry sister."

"It's been kiss and tell from the start," Varric agreed. "Rivaini had at least four pages of a romantic epic down before she vanished. Sorry to break it to you like this, Blondie."

Anders snorted. "I figured as much," he said dryly. "Perhaps that's where I've been going wrong with my manifesto, eh? Couched as a steamy romance novel it might coax more than one person into reading it. Plain facts and stories about documented abuse, things I can prove, don't seem to be winning anyone over."

"How's it going with the, uh, Grand Cleric?"

"Elthina is _busy_ ," Anders said, clipped. "She can't see me for another six weeks, and even that much is a concession. Hawke, meanwhile, can just walk in the chantry and find her talking to Sebastian whenever he wants."

He was fiddling with the silver ring; he wore it now on his thumb, it having grown too loose for his index finger. Or, to be more accurate, his index finger having grown too bloody thin for the ring. He knew Hawke worried about that. He worried, too. Varric opened his mouth as if to say something, and then closed it again, and for a long moment they stood in silence before Anders pressed his palms gently to his head trauma patient's temples and sent another pulse of healing magic through his thin frame; the youth twitched, a small fine movement that Anders had been waiting for.

"I'll send Hawke home to the estate when he finishes snoring," Varric said. "Gotta say, Blondie, no wonder sleep's been hard for you to find. He's a squirmer, isn't he?"

"Very much so," Anders said absently, still funnelling healing magic into the boy. "If that makes it into your books though, remember: I know where you keep that crossbow of yours of a night."

" _Ouch_ ," Varric said, "I'll keep that in mind. You, uh, enjoy your books, then. I'll see you tomorrow."

The boy cracked open an eye, and Anders leaned over him. "Good morning," he said, lightly, "What's your name?"

"Chester," whispered the boy, and Anders smiled. That was a good sign, although it was still too early to be sure.

"Well, Chester, you had a bit of a fall. I'm -"

"The healer," the boy said, speech slurred but still intelligible. "You're the Darktown healer. You saved my brother's leg."

Anders hesitated, and then nodded, although he'd saved so many legs nothing in particular came to mind. "Yes," he said. "You took a bit of a bump to the head, Chester. How do you feel?"

It took him another fifteen minutes to be sure Chester was well enough to go home, and at some point during those fifteen minutes, Varric must have left; Anders hadn't even heard him go. The boy seemed well enough, not even a headache for his trouble, and he had answered all of Anders's questions ( _Where do you live? What's your brother's name? How old are you? Whereabouts in Ferelden did you come from?_ ) without much difficulty. Anders would escort him home, just to be sure, and then he'd go to his own home, and his nice comfortable bed, which he'd been thinking of with some longing for the last six hours.

The vigil-keeping may have been his least favourite part of being a healer, but the happy endings he'd take as recompense. It made it worth it. It made it all worth it. He didn't know how many people he'd helped since he'd pitched up in Kirkwall, green from the sea and desperately lonely despite being filled with a spirit that should, theoretically, have made loneliness impossible, but the answer always seemed to be _not enough_.

It was strange how quickly some things could change, while others stayed in place for hundreds of years. He thought briefly of his impending meeting with Elthina. His last one, he'd told himself. If she wouldn't listen this one last time then she never would. He hadn't told Hawke that, yet. Hawke didn't believe in people, in things, quite the way Anders did: a natural cynic, product of a lifetime spent hiding what he was. He believed in his friends, though, and in Anders. And Justice, for some reason.

Anders thought of the books, which he'd hidden below a set of loose floorboards at the clinic, still in their oilcloth wrapping; and then he thought of Ella, of Justice retreating at Hawke's words, very nearly too late. He wished he could share Hawke's belief. Hawke hadn't seen what they could do, not really, hadn't seen Rolan and the mess they'd left behind. Anders hoped he never would.

Elthina, he told himself. And if she wouldn't help, he'd try something else. He had to.

* * *

The first inkling he had that something was amiss came in the form of a large number of city guardsmen milling around the square in front of the estate, and it was enough to make him break into a jog. One of the guardsmen - a young man, shaved head and heavy plate armour - saw him coming, and held up an arm to stop him; lifting his chin defiantly the lad challenged, "Who goes there?"

"Knock it off, Branson," said the woman next to him, a dark-haired sergeant with freckles and a gap between her front teeth. "That's the Champion's lover, the healer."

"What's happened?" Anders said sharply. Over Branson's shoulder he could see the front door had been kicked in, hanging pathetically off the cracked and splintered frame. His heart pounded; dread coiled in his belly. "Hawke. Maker's breath, _where's Hawke_?"

"He's fine, Messere," said the female guardsman, but Branson glared at her.

"We're just gonna let him, Rickard?"

Rickard shook her head. "You gonna stop a mage going where he wants? We're not fucking templars, Branson, stop trying to play the damn hero."

Anders pushed past them; Branson held firm, letting Anders's shoulder ricochet off his plate mail with punishing force, but Rickard stepped aside, and Anders had no time for anything else. He sprinted the short distance to the house, ignoring Branson's shouted command to stop and noting the shattered front door; there were splashes of blood in the entrance lobby and pieces of ripped clothing, and a guardsman with a notebook kneeling by a broken, mabari-chewed bench with a bloodstained axe still buried in the wood. Anders dashed through to the main hall, his pulse whirring in his mind, temples throbbing and dread in his belly.

"- Absolute mess," Aveline was saying, standing there in the middle of the main hall with her arms folded over her chest. Hawke was sitting on the bottom step, somewhat battered and holding a towel to his forehead; his housecoat was ripped and bloodied, and he was favouring one shoulder. Anders almost stopped breathing at the sight of him.

"Don't have to tell me twice," Hawke said, still staring at the ground. "Any luck finding Anders?"

"I've been right here, Hawke, same as you," Aveline said. "If we'd found him, I'd - Oh. Speak of the demon, and there it is."

"Hawke," he whispered, and his lover glanced up sharply. His knees felt like jelly. "Oh, Maker, Hawke..."

A multitude of expressions flickered over Hawke's face: surprise, relief, fear, joy -and then a final desperate gratitude. "Anders," he said, making as though to stand; Anders was at his side before he could get his legs from underneath him, kneeling with his knee on the bottom step. Up close, the damage was heavier than Anders had thought; he'd been stabbed in the thigh, and sported several nasty slash wounds across his face and arms; his right forearm had a deep gouge like he'd tried to stop an axe with nothing else to defend himself.

"What happened?" Anders asked, reaching for Hawke's face and his mana at the same time; creationism pooled in his palm, a blue glow. "Was it -"

 _Templars,_ he couldn't say, but Justice must have picked up on the thought. Blue cracks flicker-flashed across the skin, and he felt that howling curdling snarl of cold fury, an echo-memory pushed into his mind in Hawke's own voice: _kill them all, I promise_.

"No," Hawke said, reaching out and grabbing his wrist. He smeared blood wetly over Anders's green sleeve, and winced; the cracks dwindled away. They were listening. "Dwarves. Are you alright, Anders? They didn't come for you?"

Anders shook his head, touching his palm to Hawke's cheek, feeling the slight electric bristle of Hawke's beard through the well of magic. Creationism surged within them both, coursing through Hawke's body and reporting a long list of problems: _wounds, broken cheek bone, buising, knife sticking out of thigh -_

"Where were you?" Aveline asked behind him. Anders didn't turn his head, groping blindly with his free hand for the hilt of the weapon jutting out of Hawke's thigh; thank the Maker they'd had the sense to leave it in, his magic was telling him it was a hair's breadth from the artery.

"I was at the Viscount's Keep, on confidential business," he said, harshly. "You can ask the bloody Seneschal. Hawke, love, I'm going to pull this knife out, alright? Three, two -" Anders yanked the knife free before Hawke had a chance to tense up, Hawke surging up against his chest with an undignified but utterly justified whimper, and threw it aside. At the same time he poured creationism into Hawke's body, a great surging torrent of healing magic, and under his hands the muscle knit itself shut and the wounds on Hawke's face and arms began to close up.

"Thank you," Hawke said, rolling his shoulder and wincing. "What do they say about habits? Seems like everyone in this city wants to stab me."

Anders frowned, leaning back. "That's not funny," he said. "Love..."

Hawke lifted his hand, still filthy and bloodied but no longer at least wounded and gently brushed the backs of his fingers over Anders's stubble, his thumb tracing the line of Anders's jaw with infinite tenderness. His eyes were serious, and Anders shifted a little, leaning into the touch. "Hey," Hawke said, very gently. "Don't worry, love. You're the only one I want sticking anything in me."

Anders groaned, feeling that knot of fear in the pit of his stomach unravel slightly at the awful joke, which was more or less what Hawke had no doubt intended. " _Hawke_ ," Aveline said, her jaw set. "I know you only have a passing acquaintance with respectability, but can you not?"

"How else would Anders know I'm alright?" Hawke's grin was both dashing and alarming, with the blood smeared over his face; at least the customary smear across the bridge of his nose blended in with the rest.

"Many ways," Anders said. "What _happened_ , love? Where's Orana, Bodahn and Sandal?"

"Being interviewed in the kitchens," Hawke said. "They're fine - missed the whole thing. Dog's fine too, mostly annoyed because we took away his chew toy; he ripped one of their arms clean off and didn't want to surrender it when the Guard arrived." He glanced over toward the fireplace, lifting his eyebrows. "You're proving every Fereldan stereotype out there, I hope you know."

Dog, lying on his belly in front of the fireplace looking dejected, merely twitched his ears and sighed heavily. His muzzle was coated in reddish-brown drying blood; there was more of it smeared over the carpets, and even splashed over the walls. Most of the furniture had been shattered, Anders realised, or burnt beyond repair; an errant fireball must have hit one of the drapes, which was singed shorter than its twin.

"Start from the beginning," Anders said. "I left?"

"Right," Hawke said, rolling his shoulder. "You left after dinner, then Fenris and Varric came over for cards. We played until - nine bells, I think, then Varric left; some business meeting the next morning. Fenris left half a bell after that, having stayed to help me polish off the bottle. I changed into my nightclothes, said goodnight to Bodahn and Sandal, and took an early night; I'm supposed to be hunting Tal Vashoth tomorrow on the wounded coast with Sebastian and Fenris, remember? And I need to leave before dawn."

"I remember," Anders said quietly. He did, mostly. Maybe not the specifics. Hawke's life had never been restful, but now that he was recovered from the Arishok's duel he'd thrown himself into odd jobs throughout the city; whenever he wasn't taking out jobs contracted by the undermanned city guard he was hunting slavers and maleficarum. People were starting to take notice. Between his daytime work removing the city's scum and filth and his nights spent gracing noble's parties and dinners, the Champion of Kirkwall seldom rested.

"Anyway, I was abed about an hour when they kicked in the door," Hawke continued. "Dog took off like he was leading a mabari war charge, I looked around for my staff... then realised, like an idiot, I'd left it in the library. I ran out onto the landing anyway, because I wasn't going to cower in my room, you see. There were six of them, all dwarves, all hooded; as soon as they saw me over the bannister they started yelling and charged up the stairs. Dog hit them like conkers, if the clustered conkers were short and unprepared for a muscle-bound conker full of teeth."

"He took out three of them, judging from the teeth marks on the bodies," Aveline said, satisfied.

"I started throwing spells around, took out the rest, albeit less efficiently. Apparently having destructive forces of nature at your beck and call doesn't mean much when you're up against a really angry dwarf with a knife. It's unfair, is what it is, all that low centre of gravity."

"Right," Aveline, eyeing him. "The real question is, what did they want? You pissed the Carta off recently, Hawke? All six of our dwarven john does had casteless tattoos."

"Not that I can recall," Hawke said, thoughtfully. "They're mostly in the undercity, and most of the time when I'm down there I'm hunting slavers from the Imperium. Not much overlap." He scratched the bridge of his nose. "They were out for blood. Literally, kept yelling about 'blood of the Hawke'... might be some odd dwarven way of saying they want me dead specifically and only me. Not sure. Did you send for Varric yet?"

"This is a guard investigation," Aveline said, frowning. "That itinerant -"

"Knows Carta," Hawke said, firmly.

"I know a little bit about the Carta, too," Aveline said, implacable. She glanced at Anders. "Enough to know they use tunnels under the sewers for their smuggled lyrium. Enough to know that they take threats to their supply routes seriously."

Anders felt his lip curling. "Just come out and say it, Captain," he sneered. "Go on. 'I'm too incompetent to do my job and investigate, so I'd rather blame a mage I don't like'."

Aveline flushed, her fingers tightening on her breastplate. "It's a solid lead, you moody bastard," she said. "I know you've been up to no good. Fenris told me about Alrik. It's a damn good chance this attack was because of _you_ killing Carta men in your foolishness and you know it."

"Anders," Hawke said, and shook his head at him, just once. His eyes indicated they'd talk later. "Aveline, send for Varric anyway. I can't possibly comment on what Anders has been up to, but that blood of the Hawke comment..." He balled up the towel he'd been using to staunch his bleeding with between both hands, frowning. "There was something strange about them, something blank in their eyes. Where did you take the bodies?"

"The city morgue near the Merchant's Guild buildings," Aveline said. She frowned as Hawke stood up. "Hawke, you've been attacked, you really ought to -"

"I ought to be attacked less often," Hawke said wistfully. "That would be nice, wouldn't it? If I could go one day, just _one single day_ without some blood-crazed dwarf trying to stab me? This must be why Varric doesn't attend Merchant's Guild meetings."

Aveline sighed. "Since I can't _stop_ you doing what it is you want to do, even though you're being targeted by assassins, will you at least take two of my guardsmen with you?"

"Sure," Hawke said.

Unfortunately, the Captain knew him. "And will you let them _stay_ with you to the morgue?"

Hawke spread his hands. "These side streets are very winding, Captain," he said, grinning. "You never know where you're going to end up. Once, I slipped down an alleyway to evade some muggers and ended up in a shop run by a corpse who told me to stop fondling statues of Andraste - true story!"

"You're as bad a liar as Varric," Aveline said, scowling at him. She turned over her shoulder. "You'll go with him, won't you, boy? Keep him out of harm?"

Dog's ears pricked up and he sat up, tongue lolling. Aveline smirked back at Hawke, who shook his head. "Fine," he said. "A compromise it is. I'll take Anders too, of course. He won't mind, will he?"

"My day just wasn't complete without going to examine some dwarf assassin corpses," Anders deadpanned. Hawke held out his hand and Anders took it, uncaring about the blood and filth Garrett was smearing over his clothing and his skin. "Are you sure you don't want a wash and a change of clothing first, love? I can go fetch Varric while you freshen up. You're... grisly."

Hawke wrinkled his nose at him, amused. "Says the man wearing the better part of two dozen birds. Fine, if only because it'll save time."

Anders licked his thumb and casually rubbed it over the bridge of Hawke's nose, clearing a path like an inversion of his scarlet streak; Hawke's eyes softened, and he gently squeezed Anders's other hand in his own, a grounding presence. Anders still felt vaguely nauseous with dread, but it faded by the minute, as he stood before Hawke and drank in the dimple in his cheek and the rise and fall of his chest and the healthy flush to his skin, visible beneath the rents in his ruined house clothes. Uncaring of their audience, his eyes fixed on Garrett and Garrett alone, Anders slowly raised Hawke's knuckles to his lips, and when he pressed a kiss to the back of Hawke's hand he didn't even care about Aveline's weary snort.

"I should have been here," he said, in a low voice, and watched Hawke shake his head. Maker's breath, if he'd come home even a half-bell later... He should have been there. He hadn't been needed at the Viscount's Keep, not really; Seneschal Bran's private matters weren't that urgent - certainly not enough to justify losing Hawke, all the more so since they were mostly matters with his privates. 

Hawke's eyes slid sideways, to the blood drying on the carpet. "You're alright," he said. "That's what matters." He gently tugged his hand free, giving Anders a small smile to sweeten the sting, and gripped the stairwell, hauling himself up; chunks of the railing had been blown out or blackened by magically summoned fire - all but Isabela's explicit graffiti. Hawke rubbed his thumb over it as he stood, chuckling wearily. "Invincible," he said, very quietly, as if to himself.

"I can send some men down to Lowtown, see about getting your door repaired urgently," Aveline said. "In the meantime I'm upping the guard outside your estate. We can afford it now Meredith's kicked us out of the Keep."

Hawke paused, startled. Of course, Anders thought; nobody had told him yet. "What?"

"Templars replaced the guardsmen in the Keep. It's only just happened today," Anders said. It'd been a shock and a half. The entire compliment of Keep guardsmen had been slaughtered to the last by the Qunari, when they took the city; Aveline's city guardsmen had been doing their job on top of their regular work, despite the losses they'd also suffered in the invasion - until today. 

From what Bran had said, Captain Cullen had just marched a squadron of ten templars right in through the door, claiming that Meredith had agreed to 'donate' them to the city while the guard was so short-staffed. Anders, who had mostly been concentrating on not looking at the sword of mercy on their breastplates and setting Justice off in the midst of the Viscount's Keep, hadn't asked his patient how Aveline had handled the news. From the expression on her face right now, not well.

"We're still barracked there," Aveline said, sourly. "The Knight-Commander's job isn't easy, but those templars... she could have offered them to me directly. There are other parts of the city that... It's... never mind. It's not the most pressing issue in Kirkwall at the moment. Your vigilantism has probably shown you that."

Hawke frowned. "Anders, Merrill and I cleared out a whole cadron of dangerous maleficarum in the Spires last week," he said. "Those ten templars might have been handy to have then."

Anders, Hawke, Merrill and _Varric_. The story was a delicious piece of gossip, fanned by Varric, who loved some good old-fashioned shit-stirring; mage on mage, the Champion and his mage friends, fighting against dark mages who used their power for ill while the templars stood by. 

(That Merrill was herself a blood mage and Anders possessed never seemed to make it into those tales. "Daisy doesn't bleed others," Varric had said, over dinner at the Hanged Man while Anders avoided yet another of Fenris's reading lessons back at the estate. "She still counts."

"Barely," Anders had countered sourly, but Varric just shrugged and poured him another glass of wine that would have as much effect on him as water, and Anders knew there was no point pursuing the complaint.)

"The Knight-Commander tackles problems as she sees fit," Aveline said heavily, and Anders knew they'd get no other comment out of her. She was loyal to Hawke, but no fool; she knew insulting Meredith in front of either of them would just give them justification for complaint. He filed the information away, in the back of his mind, for later, and could tell from Hawke's expression he was probably doing the same thing. Aveline scowled. "Whatever you're thinking, stop it," she said. "Go get that wash. You look a sight for sore eyes, Hawke."

"Probably not far off," Hawke said. "Fine, fine, as you command, Captain. Anders, if you're going to fetch Varric, d'you think you could stop by the alienage and ask Merrill to meet us at the morgue?"

Aveline frowned. "Merrill? What do you want her for?"

Hawke shrugged one shoulder. "Just a hunch," he said, and smiled blithely in the face of her unimpressed glare.

"I'll do it," Anders said. He may not like Merrill, but as a rule of thumb, Aveline tended to piss him off more with her blind faith in the templars; an opportunity to spite her sat well within him. "You can thank me later, love."

"Oh, I'll thank you alright," Hawke agreed, his eyebrows bouncing up and down at a ridiculous speed, and Aveline groaned.

"Two grown men," she complained. "You two are _insufferable._ Do what you want, I'm not going to be a part of this."

Aveline not being part of things was just how Anders preferred it, he thought, but managed not to say aloud. Progress, of a sort. Hawke caught his eye and smiled, and Anders took it as his cue to turn and head out into the night; he had a dwarf to corral and rather more dwarves' bodies to examine, and the night was looking to be a long one.

Still, as he stepped out through the broken door of the estate, ignoring the glare from Branson and the cautious looks from the other guards, that old worry returned. Hawke was a master at driving it away; in his presence Anders felt immeasurably bolder - but six dwarves had come for Hawke, and they had no idea who might have sent them. They could be Carta; or they could be mercenaries, hired by some disgruntled citizen who just hated the fact that their Champion had been born with magic. Anders wasn't so foolish as to think Hawke as beloved by everyone else in the city as he was by Anders and the rest of his friends. Hawke was not invincible. He just did a good job of pretending. 

The thought was a sobering one, and one that offered no easy solution. He sighed and raised his hands to scrub through his hair, and as he did so the silver glint of the ring on his thumb caught his eye. Anders couldn't make the city love Hawke despite his magic; he had tried and tried to show the city that magic was not, in and of itself, dangerous, and yet...

He loved this man, sometimes so much so it frightened him. He let his hands fall to his sides as he set off along the winding cobble streets down to Darktown, and when he breathed in, he felt Justice riding below his skin like a shadow. Whoever had meant to hurt Hawke - whoever had sent those dwarves to kill him - they'd find them. And then Anders would make them _pay_. His anger felt hot, righteous, and not entirely his own; he forced it back with difficulty, and was left with a weary sort of determination. It was becoming a common state of being. _Strip away Justice and templars_ , he'd told Hawke once, _and how much is left?_

It chilled him to know he was no closer to having an answer.

* * *

The six dead dwarves were a somewhat grisly sight, lying shredded and chewed-upon and burnt upon the cold marble slab in the morgue; in the morning they'd be sewn into pauper's shrouds, weighted down with Kirkwall quarry rock, and dumped in the harbour. There wasn't enough quality land or fuel for burials or for burnings.

Anders had laid out bodies in worse state, but Varric wrinkled his nose at the sight, and even Hawke seemed a little disturbed; Merrill alone seemed unperturbed, her bare feet whispered over the chill stone floor as she wandered closer. At Hawke's nod, she drew back the heavy cloth covering the corpse of the nearest dwarf, and bent to examine him with her nose so low it almost brushed his skin. 

"Hey, that's Brevan," Varric said. "You're not wrong. Carta. Not a high-ranking member, as far as I know. Not very bright, either. Er... Daisy?"

Merrill was peeling off the dwarf's burnt leather tunic; it flaked into black pieces at her fingers. Without a word, Anders moved to help, although it made his skin crawl to do so; he lifted the corpse's arms and watched her trace her fingers along the dwarf's blackened, cracked skin. "Dwarves are resistant to magic," Hawke said, watching her work with hard eyes. "But bright or not, he was glassy-eyed and swinging wildly."

"If he was under the _bad_ sort of blood mage's control, there'll be a cut on him somewhere, older than all... this," Merrill chipped in sunnily, gesturing at the roasted skin sloughed half-off the dwarf's face. Anders glared daggers at her.

"As if there's such a thing as a _good_ blood mage," he sneered.

Merrill shrugged. "Your spirit is a good spirit," she said. "Supposedly."

"Another time," Hawke said, coming up next to them; Dog was stuck to his side like a shadow, ears flattened and teeth bared as though the corpses might rise for a second attempt. "Merrill?"

"Um," she ran her fingers up the underside of the dwarf's arm, frowning. "Maybe his other arm? Wherever that is - oh, thank you." Hawke had passed her a wrapped piece of burlap in the vague shape of an arm; Varric recoiled and even Anders pulled a face. Dog bites were never pretty, and the jaw strength of a mabari was such he'd broken the bone with his teeth before tearing the limb off halfway down the upper arm. Merrill unwrapped the sack, looking engrossed, and poked curiously at the arm, seemingly unbothered by the thin sheen of wet mabari drool coating it. "Here," she said, sounding satisfied. "On this one's right wrist. Varric, maybe you could check -"

"Nope," Varric said, raising both hands. "Not a chance, Daisy. Gives me the creeps."

Hawke snorted. "Won't touch a body unless there's change in its pockets, huh?"

"Pockets and dismembered limbs are two different things," Varric said smoothly, grinning. Anders sighed and twitched the blanket back from the next corpse; half its face had been electrocuted clean off, the skull's sneer visible through the ruins of its cheek. On its right wrist was a small partially-healed cut, clearly older than the injuries that had caused its death.

Merrill drew her knife from its sheath and sliced carefully along the cut; thick black blood oozed out over the slab. She raised her knife to her own palm when Anders stopped her, horrified. "Use mine," he said. "Don't mix the two, by Andraste's flaming knickers."

"Oh," Merrill said, blinking at him and accepting his knife (Karl's knife). "I suppose you're right."

"How you managed to survive making a deal with a demon I'll never know," Anders sneered.

"Probably by not letting him inside me," Merrill said tartly, to a snort from Varric and a tired sigh from Hawke. 

"Yet," Anders snapped. "That's what he wants, you know. You could at least learn something, before you run yourself into the ground and take us all with you."

Merrill sighed, cutting her palm in one quick practiced movement; as the blood dripped onto the slab's, mingling with the corpse's, she said, "I didn't ask, Anders."

Hawke put a hand on his shoulder and shook his head minutely, and Anders retreated wrathfully behind him as Merrill cast her spell. Blood spiralled up from the shared pool, then around her arm; she closed her eyes and opened them later with a shudder. "Ugh," she said, "That was - ugh. This is why I only bleed myself, that's horrid!"

"What did you find out?" Hawke pressed.

"They were definitely mind-controlled," she said. "The other mage was... odd. Familiar, but I'm not sure how to describe it. Sick, somehow. Either way, I don't think these dwarves were acting on Carta business."

Varric whistled. "Probably for the best. Blood mages in the Carta? The Merchant's Guild meetings would... probably be less lethal, actually." He folded his arms over his chest. "So, Brevan and his men go and get themselves mind-controlled by some sort of sick mage and come for you, Hawke. Or maybe just your blood. You annoy any maleficar recently?"

Hawke frowned. "None worth remembering names," he said. "Fenris's master, maybe? We killed his apprentice. The timing might fit; it's been long enough for the news to get back to the Imperium and for something to happen." He covered his mouth with the back of his hand. " _Shit._ I ought to go check on him -"

"You said they wanted the 'blood of the Hawke'. If they were after Fenris, I'm sure they would have gone for Fenris," Anders pointed out. Varric was watching him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Maybe." Hawke still looked ill at ease, in a way that had nothing to do with Merrill, smearing her fingers through the spilled blood and looking at it thoughtfully. Anders bit back a shudder: _blood mages_. "I should look in on him anyway. Better safe than sorry."

"You got stabbed," Varric said. "I'll do it. And if the lead doesn't pan out, I'll leave a message with your house-dwarves, and go and speak to my contacts in the Carta. You got stabbed and killed six dwarves, I think that's enough activity for one evening."

"I'm not sure this was a mage from Tevinter," Merrill murmured. "I've never met one, but I know this magic from somewhere. It's not Dalish, nor shemlen..." She rubbed her thumb against her forefinger, eyeing the smear of black blood thoughtfully. "It feels like the eluvian, somehow."

Anders snorted. "What, full of blood magic and the taint?"

"The taint," Merrill said, sounding surprised, and lifted her head. "Yes. That's it. This feels like darkspawn magic, but that's... there's no reason for a darkspawn to do this." She frowned, wiping her fingers off on the corpse's jerkin. "I think I need to look at it further, but I don't think Fenris is in any danger. Or any _new_ danger, anyway; I know he's always afraid."

This did not wholly appease Hawke. Anders tried to ignore the bitter tinge of fear and jealousy in the pit of his stomach at Hawke's frown. "If you're wrong, and Fenris is in danger -" 

"I'll take Daisy," Varric interrupted. "Look, Hawke, Broody can look after himself. We'll go right there. _You_ go home and get some rest, or I'll make Blondie drag you. Six dwarves and a stabbing, right?"

"Dog killed three," Hawke said.

"Not in my book," Varric countered cheerfully. "If he wants his exploits recognized, he needs to learn about opposable thumbs, then he can write his own adventures."

The mabari barked at him, which seemed only to amuse him. Hawke sighed heavily. "Fine," he said. "Merrill -"

"I'll keep the knives for now," Merrill said. "I can try another spell back at home, but..." she eyed the mortuary slab and the smear of blood, and Hawke reached out, letting ice spill out of his palm to wash it away.

"Thank you for your help," he said.

"Are you kidding me?" said Varric. "This is going to be your greatest adventure yet. I can't wait for the novelisation. Only downside to being the author, I gotta write it myself." He nudged Anders, who glanced down at him. "Take him home, Blondie, he's pouting, and you know I can't stand seeing humans cry."

It wasn't so much the pouting, Anders thought, as the exhaustion; Hawke was leaning with one hip against the mortuary slab, and his shoulders were slumped. Anders reached for him, and it somewhat soothed that sharp stinging thread of jealousy when Hawke smiled wearily and took his hand, his eyes brighter just for looking at him. "Let's go home, love," he said, quietly, and watched Hawke run his free hand through his hair, ruffling it up every which way before nodding.

"Promise me you'll come get me at the estate if there's any problem with Fenris," Hawke said anxiously to Varric and Merrill, outside the morgue. They'd cleaned up all trace of themselves, and Merrill had the bloody knives in a small leather satchel over one shoulder; she'd promised Anders absently that she'd return it once she had a chance to examine the dead dwarf's blood for a greater understanding of the compulsion he'd been under. Anders had grunted agreement, although only because it was Karl's knife.

"On my brother's grave," Varric said, covering his heart, or at least his chest hair, with one gloved hand.

"That's a surprisingly macabre joke," Anders remarked, "Considering that your brother isn't actually _dead_."

"Everyone's a critic," Varric said, with a shrug, and knocked his knuckles lightly against Merrill's satchel. "Come on Daisy, it's time to pay a visit to Broody."

Merrill huffed. "The last time I visited him at his mansion, he told me I defiled it with my presence," she said to him as they headed toward the wide street that would take them to Fenris's mansion. "More so than the rats and the corpses and mushrooms, I mean. Poor Fenris. I think he could use some flowers in his home, don't you?"

"I think he could use the whole place being burned down, Daisy," Varric replied in a dry tone, as they rounded a corner and vanished from sight.

"I feel like I should be going with them," Hawke said in a low voice. Dog leaned against his thigh with a sad whine. "I know, I know: Fenris is an adult and he can look after himself. He's my friend."

Anders said nothing. It was the only thing he could safely say about the elf around Hawke.

After an awkward pause, Hawke knocked their shoulders together before learning into him, with a sigh; Anders slipped his arm around Hawke's shoulders and kissed his temple. Hawke might have terrible taste in friends, but Anders supposed they'd say the same about him; and he had not taken the blood mage or the mage-fearing elf as a lover. He ought not to be so jealous. It was easier said than done.

"Thank you for coming to the morgue with me," Hawke said. 

"You asked," Anders replied, shrugging. Hawke twisted to look at him, one eyebrow raised; the edges of his mouth were turned ever-so-slightly downward. Anders kissed the tip of his nose, on some half-forged impulse he couldn't name, and didn't regret it when Hawke smiled at the action. "It's not the Deep Roads, at least."

"Never again the Deep Roads," Hawke agreed, with a shudder. He hooked an arm around Anders's waist, his bicep solid and warm, and Anders let his hand fall to cover Hawke's on his hip. "You know, didn't I promise to show how thankful I was for all you do with me at some point?"

"What, right here?" Anders tried for playfully scandalized and thought he might have come close; those delightful creases at the edges of Hawke's eyes were back. "Some role model for the citizens of Kirkwall you are, love."

Hawke darted in and Anders, expecting a kiss, moved to meet him; but Hawke dodged his mouth and his beard tickled Anders's throat, his breath hot and wet against the shell of Anders's ear, and Anders swallowed very slowly. He was abruptly aware how warm Hawke was, clad only in a serviceable leather jerkin, and how _chilly_ the autumn air in Kirkwall was. Something stirred in the pit of his belly, a languid coil of heat, and he knew it had nothing to do with Justice.

"You know," Hawke said, his voice low and husky and just this side of rough. Anders's breath felt shallow, and he stared, glassy-eyed, straight ahead at the grey stone wall opposite, his body responding almost without his command to Hawke's tone. His mouth felt dry, his tongue fat and useless, and his heart hammered in his chest, fluttering with rapid fascination. "It occurs to me that I've been penetrated by all the wrong people today."

"Oh, _Maker_ ," Anders groaned, and Hawke's chuckle was as lewd as it was delighted. He supposed he shouldn't complain, he thought, as Hawke gently tugged at his hip, steering him home.

He'd known what he was getting into. He'd fallen for a man who considered a confession of possession merited a remark about his _sexy tortured look_ , and he still considered it worth the price.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, after pressing any heart option in DA2: Oh, God, HAWKE NO.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I quietly remove that 'eventual smut' tag from the story list and replace it with straight-up 'smut'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had Chapter six approximately 75% completed, but it was looking super long, and I wanted to write some smut. "As long as it's under 2,000 words, I should be fine," I said, "I really don't want to go over 8,000 words for a chapter."
> 
> It is 5,500 words, and I am a total windbag.
> 
> On the plus side, for those of you who like smut, this chapter is 5,500 words of it! And for those of you who don't, you can skip this chapter and enjoy a plottier one out in probably two days or so, once I finish a few small rewrites!

Anders was used to people wanting him dead.

It sounded more macabre than it actually was, but there it was: between the templars and the undercity's thugs, and whatever bandits or miscellaneous scum he ran across with Hawke, people trying to kill him had become de facto a part of his life. He'd gotten used to sleeping with a knife under his pillow and a watchful spirit beneath his skin, but acceptance did not necessarily equal complacency, and never had he truly been relaxed about the idea.

So it was that he found himself watching Hawke very closely on the way back to the estate. Hawke was a master of distraction, of a verbal sleight-of-hand quite the equal to Isabela's skill with a card deck; but Anders had come to realise that just as Hawke knew him, however intimately, he too knew Hawke, and Hawke could not hide his nervousness from him. For all that Hawke's hands wandered over the walk home, his voice low and heady in Anders's ear and his body blazingly warm, he was just a little too quick to eye the shadows, and a little too attentive to fool Anders.

After Hawke had spent ten minutes debriefing Aveline's guardsmen on what to do if Varric or Fenris came, and then another five giving Bodahn a strict list of allowed guests, Anders decided enough was enough.

"Hawke," Anders said carefully, curling his fingers around Hawke's wrist to draw his attention. "Come to bed."

"Now?" Hawke grinned at him; he'd re-applied that red streak across his nose after washing up, and Anders was startled to realise he'd grown used to it. 

(He still drew the line at Hawke getting it tattooed in place, as he kept suggesting, 'iconic' status be damned.)

Anders tilted his head, crooking an eyebrow just so, and tugged gently at Hawke's wrist; his lover followed him with an almost _canine_ eagerness up the staircase, leaving Bodahn - who had been looking increasingly frazzled under Hawke's verbal onslaught of instructions - in the entrance hall with his dustpan and brush, looking rather relieved. Orana was on the landing with a tub of wash water and a scrubbing brush, frantically working a foaming mixture into the blood-stained carpet; she looked up at them as they passed with wide eyes, and Anders shook his head at her. "It's late, Orana," he said. "Go to bed."

"I -" She glanced at the foam on the carpet. Sandal was delicately dusting the half-wrecked bannister, watching them out of the corner of his eye with his finger hanging out of his mouth. "... Messere?"

"You've done an excellent job," Hawke said, still staring at Anders like it'd kill him to break eye contact. "Thank you, Orana, but it's late. It can wait until tomorrow."

Perhaps the expression on Hawke's face gave him away. Orana quickly rose to her feet, gathering her skirts around her to sketch him a bow, and then held out a hand for Sandal, which he took while still watching them; Anders let them go down the stairs and then gently tugged Hawke into the master suite after him. 

"You know, I love a man who knows his mind," Hawke said hopefully, and Anders closed the door after them calmly but firmly. He had slid closer, despite Anders's grip on his wrist; his free hand carefully caught Anders by the elbow, his thumb pressing against the soft inner skin. Anders's heartbeat picked up. He smelled like expensive cologne, and a little bit like the sea, and his sheer presence sent shivers dancing through his spine, like his hair wanted to stand on end. His stomach felt molten, his legs locked into place. He fought against his natural impulse to stare at the floor; lifted a hand and carefully trailed his fingers along the thin, fragile skin of Hawke's throat, cupping the back of his neck.

"You know that I love you," he said, quietly. "It's alright to be... worried. To let me know if you are. I love you. I will never judge you, you know that."

"Me?" Hawke grinned, a flash of white teeth amongst his dark beard. "Are you sure you're thinking of me? Dashing, handsome mage, Champion of a city, conquering hero?" He stooped forward, touching their foreheads together with surprising gentleness for a man who had butchered six dwarves with fire and ice and raw, innate magic not even three bells ago.

And a mabari too, Anders supposed.

"Because if you _are_ thinking of me," Hawke said, his breath hot on Anders's lips and his gold eyes fierce and intent on Anders's face, "then you ought to know that I'm not that fragile. So someone wants me dead, what's new? I'm here, Anders. I'm alive."

Anders let his thumb brush the pulse-point at the side of Hawke's throat, right up against the big throbbing vein; possessed of a sudden fierce urge he suddenly swooped to kiss it, tasting Hawke's salt-sweat-soap scent as he did so. Hawke tilted his head to one side with unconscious ease, and he was thick and _solid_. Anders could feel Hawke's facial hair scraping against his own, tickling his nose and his cheek; he could feel the small quiet _thud-thud-thud_ of Hawke's heartbeat against his tongue, and Maker help him but it was just what he wanted.

"Fuck," Hawke said, viciously, and then he sagged against Anders with sudden force, one of his hands coming up - square-palmed and greedy, the rough thumb scraping over the homespun cloth of Anders's coat - to grab onto his hipbone, sharper now than ever. The weight of him pinned Anders back against the door; the back of Anders's head thudded off the wood, and it sent blue flicker-flashing through his skin that he forced back with a conscious growl: he was in no danger here, he _wanted_ this, he _wanted_ Hawke and he could feel that low slow ignition in his belly, like his body was just one piece of flint and Hawke another. 

Hawke knew how to play his body better than Anders knew how to play his lute, which was not, admittedly, a high benchmark. Fingers slipped under Anders's chin, raising his face for a kiss even as the last of the blue drained out of him; as their lips met, wet and just the right side of sloppy, a muscled thigh slipped between his knees. Anders sucked in a breath, moaning despite himself at the warm cresting wave of heat in his groin; he was half-hard and Hawke leaned against him, giving him some blessed, desperately-wanted friction.

"Maker," Anders moaned, letting his head fall back against the door with a hearty _thud_ , grinding down shamelessly against Hawke's trouser leg. He'd given up on the kissing; his mouth was open unselfconsciously, and Hawke was the one holding his face still, fingers on his chin, dipping in repeatedly for sweet, slow, gentle kisses like Anders wasn't rubbing his cock up against the man's thigh in shameless, appreciative lust. 

"You should see yourself, love," Hawke said, and he sounded far too smug. Anders narrowed his eyes at the man, at that ridiculous (sexy) nose streak and his wild black hair and his glinting gold eyes. At the dimple in his cheek and the gleam of his beard, the width of his shoulders. All at once Anders wanted to taste him; he pushed himself away from the door with clear determination in every muscle, surging up against Garrett's lean (solid) body, his arms sliding easily around Hawke's waist over that smooth jerkin and around to rest on his arse, pulling the man up against him; he was close but still not close enough, and Anders consoled himself by burying his face in that fluttering pulse-point between Hawke's collar bones and licking one long, rasping stripe up his neck, his tongue whispering over stubble like sandpaper. Hawke tasted a little bit of iron, mixed with that odd, queer sensation that was all his, as electrifying as the lightning magic he used, as smoky as the fire.

He nipped Hawke's collarbone sharply, lapped at the skin to soothe any sting. "You," he said, holding himself still for just one moment. Hawke was hard against his hip, and he canted his pelvis, grinding minutely up against his lover's cock to watch the way his pupils widened. " _You_ are wearing too many clothes."

"Someone should fix that," Hawke agreed. He was staring at Anders like Anders held the answer to all of life's mysteries in his eyes, and it was almost frighteningly overwhelming. Anders gave the man's arse one last appreciative squeeze, and let his hands slither up Hawke's body to cup his face; he drew Hawke to him for one more kiss, and Hawke swayed toward him at the gentlest pressure like a man enthralled. 

"Go sit down," Anders breathed, their mouths barely half an inch apart, and set his hands on Hawke's chest, applying the slightest force to walk Hawke backward to their bed like some odd inversion of their very first night. Hawke walked like a dreamer, his palms cupping Anders's hips like it would kill him to let go; he made Anders feel, in that moment, like the most important creature alive. When the backs of his knees hit the bedframe, he went down with a sort of effortless grace that made the roof of Anders's mouth go dry, his eyes on Anders's the entire time. 

Rather than follow him, Anders took advantage of the moment to strip; not for the first time he cursed his own habit of layering as he unfastened the chain of his pauldrons and drew strips of leather through the buckles on his coat, shrugging out of the unwieldy if warm garment and letting it pool on the floor. His grey under-tunic went next, flung with wild abandon to the floor beside the bed; he slipped one knee up on the mattress next to Hawke, still wearing his boots and trousers, and grinned when Hawke's hands gravitated to his hips as though Hawke couldn't imagine anywhere else to put them. "Fuck, Anders," Hawke breathed. His eyes were almost orange, pools catching and holding the firelight. 

"Not through our trousers, we're not. Had enough of that in the Circle. Take your clothes off," Anders said, raising an eyebrow, and laughed in delight as Hawke snarled and surged up to seize him, toppling him down onto the mattress. Hawke tumbled them over until Anders was underneath him, breathing rapidly, his legs hanging off the bed and his boots still flat on the floor; Anders didn't even care about the indignity of the position as Hawke leaned down and bit the edge of his jaw, right below his ear, his beard ticklish and warm and his teeth sharp and smooth. Anders moaned, closing his eyes as his cock throbbed, aching within his smalls; he writhed under Hawke - mostly for show, because Hawke just pushed him back against the mattress and oh _Maker_ , he felt so damn _sturdy_ , Anders wanted...

Above him Hawke was struggling with the jerkin; Anders licked his lips and spread his thighs, watching as Hawke wrestled it off and the plain linen undershirt he wore beneath it. Evenly matched, still in trousers and smalls, but Hawke pushed himself backward off the bed and shoved his down, both of them combined, and oh Maker, he was _naked_ and stroking himself, and it was just what Anders needed. He lay back, folding his arms behind his head, and let his eyes roam over Hawke's thick dark hair, the coarse lushness of it pouring down his well-muscled chest; down his abdomen, a long line straight to his cock, full and hard and flushed with his obvious hunger, jutting out stiffly from a thatching of thick dark curls. It had been almost a year now. He was only just about reconciled to the idea that full nudity was a thing they could have, that nobody would walk in on them, and that if they did, the two of them would not be punished for doing this.

"I should charge admission," Hawke said, in a low voice, and Anders laughed. "I'm serious, if you want to look, there's a fee. I want to see yours, too."

"Might need some help with my boots," Anders said, in a voice as deep as Hawke's had been, and lifted one booted foot up elegantly onto the mattress, leg bent. His smalls felt uncomfortably tight; he swore he could feel his own pulse in his cock, the staccato rhythm of it keeping time with Hawke's. 

Hawke came closer, unabashed in his nakedness; he was proud of his body, prouder of Anders's pure appreciation, and he grinned as he caught the back of Anders's calf with one broad hand, the other meticulously unthreading the bandages laced through the broken buckle and holding it up. "I want to fuck you," he said, without an ounce of shame, pulling the unknotted bandage free with a soft hiss as it rasped through the metal clasp. With the firelight illuminating him, he shone; Anders swallowed, and tried to remember what it had been like to think he had control of their bedroom. Hawke tugged at his boot, having loosened a few more buckles, and it slid it slowly off Anders's calf; his socks followed, balled up and pointedly tossed in the laundry hamper. 

Instead of going for the other boot, he climbed up onto the bed, and when he crawled up Anders's body his eyes seemed almost to glow. Anders felt the breath catch in his lungs, his cock trapped and aching as Hawke passed over it with no sign of slowing. "I want you on your back, love," Hawke murmured, his voice low and peculiarly intimate, like this was a part of him he could only show Anders, here and now. He lowered himself carefully on top of Anders, his cock shamelessly grinding in between Anders's thighs; he could feel the heavy weight of it through his trousers. Hawke kissed his throat, and Anders stared at the canopy of their bed with his heart pounding, his skin feeling four sizes too small, electricity flicker-bursting at the tips of his fingers. "I want you under me, sort of like you are now, and I want to fuck you."

Anders licked his lips, wondering when they had become so dry, and swallowed; Hawke's eyes followed the movement, and somehow this energised him, this reminder that as desperately as his body responded to Hawke's, so too Hawke's did to his own. He dug his elbows into the mattress and pushed himself up, Hawke falling away before him, and rolled them over so that he was on top; perched atop Hawke's thighs, he pushed somewhat ineffectively at the waistband of his trousers, and grinned when Hawke hooked the tips of his fingers in them. It was a somewhat awkward and not-at-all-spicy shimmy to get them off, but eventually he had trousers and smalls pooled around the single boot he still wore, and, well, fuck it, close enough, especially when Hawke lazily licked the heel of his palm and took Anders's cock in a firm, appreciative grip that sent sudden sparks coursing through him.

A muscle in his abdomen jumped, and when he breathed out, a shaky plume of ice vapour formed out of the air in his lungs despite the heated atmosphere of their bedroom. Hawke saw it, and grinned. He opened his mouth - to quip, to joke, to _flirt_ , Maker forbid - but Anders just bent over and kissed him. Between his thighs, Hawke was all solidly built muscle, and Anders wanted him - and wanted Hawke inside him - with everything he had.

Hawke's hands were steadying on his lower back. When they parted, they smiled at each other, and Anders could see Hawke's affection right there out in the open, cut into the lines of his face. He settled back against Hawke's thighs, tracing his fingers delicately through Hawke's chest hair, his thumb navigating on reflex to the old scars - the white lines that crossed and criss-crossed Hawke's body, battle-wounds, war-wounds; from the puckered silver disc left over from the Arishok to the smaller marks of a hundred half-dodged nicks and cuts. Anders remembered most of them. Here, the slash parallel to Hawke's lowest left rib; a bandit. The cratered scar two inches to the right of his naval: an arrow to the gut, almost fatal. Arrows, spears, blades; Hawke was not invulnerable. He set his palm over Hawke's heart, felt the reassuring beat of it steady and strong underneath the heel of his hand, and said, "I want to ride you."

"Oh sweetheart, you _do_ whisper the cutest nothings," Hawke said.

Anders laughed. "Better than a sandwich," he said, half-teasing and half punch-drunk and giddy with a sort of spiralling warmth inside his very chest. "Your bedroom talk is only improving, love. I'll get the oil."

Hawke pouted when Anders slipped off his lap, but not for long; Anders returned shortly with the small vial of amber-coloured oil he kept with his most potent medicinal herbs in his night-table drawer. With his eyes decidedly fixed upon Hawke's, he twisted the top off and poured some of the contents into his cupped palm; pressing the vial into Hawke's limp, unresisting palm, he dipped his forefinger and index finger into the pool of oil and drew them back, glistening. "Here," he said, taking Hawke's free hand and letting some of the oil drizzle over his fingers. "For you."

"Maker's breath," Hawke murmured.

His cock throbbed between his legs in urgent reminder of what he wanted; Anders ignored it, balanced on his knees, thighs taut and tense as he slipped his fingers up and behind his balls; the first press inside had him biting his lips, spine curving like a bowstring, and oh _Maker_ it felt good; he took his time, went slow, found the right spot. Let himself get used to the bluntness. Hawke was stroking himself with the same unhurried languid hunger, palm sliding over the flushed skin of his cock, and Anders smiled at the sight. He liked Hawke's cock. He'd sampled a fair few, but Hawke's had the bonus of being attached _to Hawke_ , which put it a step above the rest.

"Enjoying yourself?" Anders asked, spreading his thighs further to provide more room; Hawke caught him, hands on his inner thighs, palms scratching ever so gently against the thin delicate skin there. The very tip of his little fingers rubbed soothingly over the crease between his leg and his groin, and Anders's eyes fluttered shut; at that moment his fingers found the right spot and he arched, jerking like a marionette with a guttural cry of pleasure.

"You have no idea," Hawke said, his voice low and reverent. He leaned forward, catching Anders's mouth in a kiss so soft and achingly sweet it made Anders's toes curl; his cock jumped against his stomach with the next insistent press and curl of his fingers, moisture beading from the head and smeared wetly over his belly. Hawke's right hand moved insistantly between his legs, finding Anders's own hard at work; still kissing, mouth sloppy and eager, Hawke gently wrapped his fingers around Anders's wrist, and Anders let himself relax and be directed, Hawke fucking him on his own fingers as he jerked and whined into Hawke's hot, desperate mouth.

"Fuck," Anders spat, pulling away. His nipples felt like he still had those damn hoops in, like Hawke had zapped them with fine bolts of electricity; they were almost as stiff as his cock. "Hawke, Maker -"

"Enough?" Hawke asked. 

It wasn't an order. Anders curled his fingers just _so_ , felt the shocky blasts of pleasure course through him; in his toes, his thighs, his Maker-be-damned balls. His mouth hung open, slack; he couldn't work out the complexities of speech well enough to answer Hawke with anything other than a nod. In the back of his mind, something foreign stirred; it cared not at all about the act, but he knew his complacency distressed it. He forced himself to swallow, to nod, to work his useless jaw into something resembling normalcy enough to say, scraped raw and needy, "Yes."

He linked his hands together on the back of Hawke's neck as they lowered him into Hawke's lap, thighs trembling, abdomen curling. Hawke was thick and blunt, but he was so fucking _hot_ , like he was warming Anders up from the inside, and he felt so fucking good pressing in. Hawke himself helped, bearing some of Anders's weight; his face was screwed up in serious concentration, and Anders - breathing open-mouthed, grateful for his near-nakedness, sweat oozing down his collarbones and oil smeared luxuriously down his inner thighs from Hawke's hands - stared at that, at the furl of Hawke's eyebrows, at the way his lip had gone white under the pressure of his teeth. At the black in his eyes, pupil blown, colour in his cheekbones.

When he was finally seated he leaned forward, spine curving, to press his forehead against Hawke's throat; felt Hawke's arms stroking his back gently, Hawke's lips tickling his hair, all murmured reassurances, "I love you," and, "Feel so good, Anders," and the simple word, "love" over and over again, and smiled. When he felt ready, when the thick press of Hawke inside him felt a little less odd, he arched his hips, shifting his weight backward; laughed aloud at Hawke's face - Hawke was a handsome man, a _very_ handsome man to Anders's eye, but if Isabela could see him in the act she'd burn all her friend- _fiction_ in favour of friend- _art_ , and none of it would be flattering. Hawke grinned and slid a hand up from his tight hold on Anders's sharp hip-bone; found a nipple, pinched it to make Anders gasp. "Now we're even," he said.

"Oh, you think so?" Anders felt his eyebrows raise, his mouth stretched into a ridiculous smile despite himself. Hawke answered him with a smug sneer, and oh, it was _on_.

He dug his knees into the feather mattress, anchoring himself, and then began to move, a steady shallow rock of his hips like a ship rolling with the waves, Hawke shifting beautifully inside him and sending sharp staccato starbursts of pleasure igniting within him. He closed his eyes his and concentrated on that, on the rise and fall; on the fullness, on the thickness, on the pleasure coursing through him and the urgent hungry throb of his cock, wilfully neglected. 

His breath was coming faster and faster, shallow quick breaths becoming pants; Hawke groaned aloud and then, embarrassed, hid his face in Anders's throat. Like the staff didn't know what they were doing already. Anders laughed, burying his hand in the thick softness of Hawke's hair, holding him close; he raised his other hand and snapped his fingers, grinning as sparks cracked and flickered between forefinger and thumb, blue and violet; said, "Hawke, I want to - the electricity thing -"

"Maker, _yes_ ," Hawke said damply, still muffled against the curve of Anders's throat and shoulder; his own massive shoulders were quivering with excitement and pleasure, his voice scraped-raw and needing. He might be the one inside Anders, might be the one holding his hips and rocking up into him, but when Anders set his thumb on the base of Hawke's spine - the tailbone, right above the crease of his arse - the current shocked them both, and it was Hawke who groaned, gutturally, and fucked up into him with a frenzied desperation.

"Fuck," Anders groaned, felt Hawke grunt against his throat; rocked his hips again, tipped his head back; the canopy of the bed had never seemed so far away. Every part of his body seemed at once to be both his and not; it reminded him faintly of their trip to the Fade, feeling his limbs and yet not-feeling them as Justice took control. Hawke's hands were grabbing onto his hips bruisingly tight, as though Hawke was afraid Anders might just float away if he were to let go, and the next thrust sent a giddy wave of pleasure through his belly that felt as though Hawke might not be wrong. His arms were dangling limply over Hawke's shoulder; he tried to muster up enough control for another jolt of electricity, but three attempts later he had to give up; he canted forward, pressing his face to Hawke's, mouths meeting sloppily for a kiss despite the awkward angle.

"I need," Hawke muttered, "Oh, fuck! I want to - Anders, love - roll over -"

"Yes," Anders breathed, looping his arms tightly around Hawke's shoulders; let Hawke slide free after the next thrust, pick him up - like a ragdoll, and _maker_ that was sexier than it should have been - and turn them around; his back met the feather mattress, finest goose feather, and there were pillows under his hips and he arched his spine, reaching out almost blindly; Hawke caught his hand and laced their fingers together, kissed his wrist - had to be able to feel Anders's heart pounding in his chest. Then Hawke was back again, kissing him and slipping back home and Maker, Anders needed him, needed him so badly; he dug blunt fingernails into Hawke's shoulders, hissed, "Fuck - love, I love you, _I love you_ -"

Hawke shoved his face, whiskery and ticklish with beard, into Anders's chest; ignored the obvious targets of his nipples, teeth and tongue instead searching for the thick ridge of scar tissue where Rolan had stabbed them with his sword, his sword of _mercy_ , he had thought to end them but he was not _just_ , he was not a justified man and they were too strong for him; no single sword could kill them if they did not wish it - and Hawke was tracing the scar with his tongue, as reverent as Anders had been earlier with Hawke's own scars, and he was _a just man_. His throaty growl was all the warning Anders needed. He flailed blindly southward, slipped his fingers into Hawke's mop of unruly black hair; said, "Spill in me if you need to," and groaned softly when Hawke _did_ , throwing his head back and groaning, the unabashed loudness of a man who had never known the hush of a Circle.

Anders's own cock pulsed between his legs. He stroked his fingers down Hawke's face, resting still on his chest; when Hawke finally recovered and slid out of him, he couldn't help but whine. Hawke's hand was resting on the flat of Ander's belly, sticky as it was from the moisture his cock leaked even now; when Anders raised a hand to ask what he thought he was doing Hawke was frowning in concentration. "The lightning trick gave me an idea," he said. "Hold on, love."

"What -" _are you doing_ Anders started to say, but then he felt it; a hum, a vibration in the pit of his belly, electricity used not to shock and surprise but in such a low potency the hair on his arms stood on end; his pubic bone hummed and balls contracted as the humming increased in his very bones, feeling like it was going to take him apart; his body shivered and shook and Anders laughed wildly, like some kind of madman, drunk on pleasure: _you've never been with a mage, have you?_

_Didn't you have that electricity trick? That was nice._

"Garrett," he said, the vibration in his very body; everything felt electric, everything felt too hot; he thought he might shake apart from the keen, terrible pleasure of it all. "Hawke, love, I'm going to -" because he was, he could feel it in his sac, a ramping excitement, an edge he was drawing closer; and Garrett - face screwed up into a proper craftsmen's frown of concentration, unattractive in its seriousness and yet so lovely - flicked his eyes upward to Anders's face and _smiled_ , and oh, that _rat bastard_ , Anders thought, coming despite himself: _the apprentice is the enchanter now_.

He came without a sound, Garrett grinning smug triumph as Anders's seed spurted over his wrist, and when it passed he was still himself, still lying flat on his back on a feather mattress that was part-his, on a bed with silk sheets, with a naked man he loved - a naked _mage_ man he loved - casually sucking his spend off his wrist like it was no issue at all.

Sometimes the strangeness of his life caught him at the most unexpected times. He drew in a breath, expelled it as a cloud of mist; Hawke's face softened with understanding, and he crawled up the bed to lie next to Anders, an arm thrown over his chest. 

"I love you," Anders said, turning his head to look Hawke in the face. He lifted a hand, covered Hawke's elbow with it; cold press of silver ring, muscles weak and liquid - absolutely fine. Hawke smiled, kissed his nose.

"What, no comment on _my_ electricity trick?"

Anders laughed. "I think you saw my reaction, love," he said. "You win. I cede my torch to you."

"You're a giver," Hawke said, but there was a touch of wistfulness to his smile. Anders leaned over, and for a time they traded small, slow kisses, mouths gentle and muscles useless.

He was nearly dozing off when Hawke said, quietly, "I'm sorry about the dwarves. This is your home, you know." He sighed. "I wanted it to always be safe for you, and now the furniture's broken and if my maid wasn't a former blood mage's slave and well-versed in cleaning blood up there'd be no getting the stains out of the carpet."

Now Anders raised himself up slightly on one elbow, frowning. "This isn't your fault, Hawke," he said. "We'll get to the bottom of this. We'll find out why the dwarves attacked you, and we'll... make them stop attacking you."

Hawke grinned. "I wish I had your faith," he said, somewhat crookedly.

"You do," Anders said, recalling a conversation in an alienage, months ago. He rolled onto his side, curling in closer to Hawke; reaching up with hands still weighted down with the aftershocks, he smoothed some of Hawke's sweat-soaked hair from his face. "In your friends. Remember?" He groped for Hawke's hand, held it. "We're here. We'll stand with you. You know that."

Hawke blinked at him, several times, and then smiled; it was a rare honest smile, stripped of its customary slightly mocking tone, and one of the most endearing expressions he could wear. "When you get like this," he said, "I don't think anyone could turn you down, you know."

"Let's hope Elthina agrees," Anders murmured, thinking of his meeting: five and a half weeks. The manifesto was almost finished, very nearly almost perfect. He'd chased up information in a lot of the eyewitness reports, using a combination of blackmail, bribery and outright threats to gain evidence to support some of the claims; Meredith had countered by ordering a vicious raid on the Underground, carried out by the Knight-Captain himself, that had ended up with two dead. Bancroft and Selby both thought it worth the price, if the Grand Cleric could be persuaded to help force Meredith to back down.

"She will," Hawke said, firmly. "She must. Her precious neutrality won't mean anything if the Gallows end up soaked in blood."

Anders touched the scar the Arishok had given his lover with the back of his fingers, eyes downcast. He could feel the warmth and vibrancy of Hawke there against his hand, feel the faint echo of his heartbeat against his fingers; smell the sweat, lyrium and ocean air scent that was all his own. He was alive. He was fiery, and warm, and alive. There were plenty of mages who weren't. Elthina was the way, he told himself. "Let us hope it won't come to violence," he said quietly, but even as he said it, he felt the doubt within him.

It frightened him less than it should, the thought of open violence, outright warfare between mage and templar; there would be deaths, and they would be innocents, and he would do what he could to keep the peace, but... There would come a point where he had to do more. Mages, throwing themselves from the windows of their cells; a river of blood leading to lyrium-branded walking corpses, unthinking, severed, unwhole. The people of the city nodding their heads, saying, _yes, this is justified, this is fair_ , and he wished for peace but he knew Andraste had fought for her people's freedom in a war much bloodier than this.

This city had given him Hawke; had given him this love, this warmth, the closest he'd ever come to a true home: but he was all too aware that it could be taken away from him at any point. And if he ever doubted, he only had to look at the evidence, written in scar tissue deep in Hawke's skin. Qunari in the Viscount's Keep, dwarves in his home, Meredith in the Gallows; it all added up, weighing down the city's Champion, and the next time might be the last.

Kirkwall would have its pound of flesh one way or another.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An adventure to the Vimmark mountains turns sour for everyone, except maybe Varric. Also, we discover one of Hawke's most horrifying hobbies.

The Chantry bells were chiming the eighth hour as Anders opened the drawers in their bedroom, fingers trailing thoughtfully over the contents. When he found Hawke's socks - all a uniform grey, and all slightly worn-in at the heels - he plucked up three pairs, balled up together with their mates, and threw them onto the bed next to the open and waiting traveller’s knapsack.

"The Vimmark foothills are a desert wasteland," Varric remarked, from his seat atop Hawke's private writing desk. Hawke's journal was in his lap, opened. 

"It gets cold in the desert once the sun goes down," Anders countered. Kristoff had been to Weisshaupt, had ridden a fine-boned Ander mountain horse across the salt flats, blighted and withered; and the sun had burned all day but the cold had been just as bad all night. Justice cherished the memory, bizarrely. Maybe it was the physicality of it, the sensation of hot and cold. "Besides, you've got to take us there. Didn't I hear you tell Hawke your Carta contact would only show us the way if you were there?"

Varric snorted. "They're as steamed under the collar as Hawke is, believe you me. First their men go missing, then reappear attacking Hawke, of all people? They're distrustful, but they're not stupid, Blondie."

"So we're doing them a favour investigating the mystery vanishing spot?" Anders picked out a pair of spare trousers, folded dark grey with lyrium embroidery; handling them sent a slow buzz through his spine - these were Hawke's lightning-enhancing pair. They went in the knapsack, socks on top, and he hefted it thoughtfully before deciding that would have to do. The bedroll and water carton needed to be added yet.

"You could say that," Varric said. "Personally, I prefer to think of it like... murder-mystery investigation. Even if apparently I'm not allowed in the investigation part."

"Hawke's just being cautious," Anders said. "Carta acting strangely, and Merrill thinking there might be darkspawn involved - he lost his siblings to them, you know that. Carver might have survived, but..."

"I do," Varric said. "Not all of us are Grey Wardens. Still. Broody gets to go with."

Anders scowled, retrieving Hawke's bedroll from the bottom of the wardrobe. "Apparently. I suppose it has to do with the phasing."

He'd argued against it, but Hawke had very patiently overruled him. "I know you're not exactly bosom friends," he'd said, "but I'd feel better for having Fenris there, and you have to admit of all our friends he's probably the least likely to get himself wounded in a scrap with Darkspawn."

"Varric survived the Deep Roads," Anders had pointed out, because it was either that or petulantly nitpick that _our_ , as though he and Fenris could be said to be any kind of friends at all; Hawke had just _looked_ at him, and he'd sighed and capitulated. The prospect of the long trip to the Vimmarks, the investigation of the Carta's mystery assassin camp, and then returning - all with _Fenris_ , of all people - didn't exactly thrill him, but Hawke wasn't exactly _wrong_.

"Where is Hawke, anyway?" Varric asked.

Anders sniffed. "Bodahn said someone knocked and asked for him while we were at the Hanged Man," he said. "They left a message for him to meet them in the Blooming Rose."

Varric frowned. "What, Champion business as normal? And you let him go off on his own, with all the assassins after him? Not like you, Blondie."

"Of course not," Anders said, opening a second knapsack and tossing his own spare clothing in it without anywhere near the attention he'd given Hawke's. "He took the dog, Sebastian, and Aveline with him."

"To the Blooming Rose?" Varric's eyebrows were inching up his forehead, and when Anders gave him a sly grin by way of confirmation, he threw his head back and cackled. "Hah! Poor Rivaini, missing out on that. On second thoughts poor _me_ , missing out on that. Who'd you think has it worse, Choir Boy or our ferocious captain of the guard?"

"I'd say Hawke, with those two after him like nagging Chastity spirits," Anders said, smugly prim. He dropped his spellbook into the bag, atop the clogged detritus of spare clothing, the waxed ground sheet, and paper and ink for any last-minute manifesto notes.

"We're leaving tomorrow morning," Varric said. "I hope whatever this poor bastard's business was can wait."

"I think that's why Hawke brought Aveline," Anders said. Had he packed his spare boots? Shit. He went to his knees and lifted up the cover of the bed, looking underneath it; muffled, he said, "She's letting Dog stay with her while we're gone. He can be a bit much for Orana and Bodahn."

Varric made a clicking noise of agreement. "Probably the slobber," he said. "Oh, hold up." The newly-repaired front door had slammed; Anders sat back on his heels and watched Varric carefully close Hawke's journal and set it aside where he'd found it, straightening the corner with obvious fastidiousness. "Do me a favour, Blondie, don't let him know I had a peek."

"Right," Anders said, amused. "I think he knows. Find anything interesting?"

Varric pulled a face. "Only a poem. Did you know your name can be forced to rhyme with _Commanders_?"

It startled a laugh out of him, which probably had been what Varric had been going for; the dwarf hopped off the writing desk looking plenty smug himself, brushing imaginary dust off his trouser thighs. There was conversation in the hall; Anders climbed slowly to his feet, wincing as his knee clicked. "I'm still not looking at the journal, no matter what you say."

"It's true. _My lover's name is Anders, he'll never obey any commanders -_ "

"In the journal again, Varric?" Hawke asked mildly, pushing open the bedroom door; Dog burst in beside him and Anders let out a cry of dismay as the mutt took a running jump onto the bed, spilling both knapsacks off it and sending socks rolling over the bedroom floor. "You missed the second verse. It was astoundingly saucy."

Anders ran his hands through his hair, glaring at the dog sullenly; Hawke crossed the room and dropped a hand to his waist, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. Anders swayed toward him instinctively, still giving the mabari a death glare. "Welcome home," he said. "That dog -"

"Off," Hawke said, without even looking, and the mabari sighed heavily and jumped off the bed. "Pick up the socks, boy. Hello, Varric. Trying to seduce Anders away from me still, I see?"

"It's the chest hair," Varric said, with a shrug. "What can I say, Hawke, your man prefers his lovers short and stocky, and we do have the same taste in hair styling."

"That's the secret to true love," Anders agreed, his irritation at the mabari ebbing away as the dog retrieved each pair of socks and deposited them atop the covers, even if they were shiny with drool; he laughed when Hawke slipped an arm around his waist and affixed Varric with a mock-stern glare. "I wouldn't worry. Don't tell Varric, but it's beards that do it for me most, love."

Varric laughed, resting a gloved hand over his heart. " _Ouch_. You're breaking my heart, Blondie. Maybe I ought to stick to the limericks, huh? ' _There was once a Warden who was also a Mage, who would never stay in his cage_ -"

"I wish you'd stay out of my journal," Hawke said, sounding slightly pained but mostly just resigned.

Varric snorted. "Like you didn't write that awful poetry knowing I'd read it and feel compelled to improve it," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "Don't you worry, Hawke, I'll have the finished thing ready for you before the end of the week. Gotta be a better rhyme for Anders than _Commanders_."

"I'm standing right here," Anders said, deciding the lightning-trousers were too soggy for use; he crossed to the chest of drawers and began hunting for a new pair. Most of the remainder were damaged, or just plain hideous; Hawke's clothing sense was... questionable. "Ugh, Hawke, you need to let Orana visit a tailor soon, love."

"I'll keep it in mind," Hawke said, righting his bag and cautiously peering into it.

Varric chuckled, folding his arms over his chest. "He's narrating the contents of your underwear drawer, and I'm the snoop?" he complained.

"Anders has underwear drawer privileges," Hawke said, rather smugly, and Varric shook his head. 

"Tell us about the Blooming Rose, Hawke. Settle the matter for us - who blushed more, Choir Boy or Aveline?"

"Oh, definitely Aveline," said Hawke. "Faith was doing a set, I thought she might catch fire. Sebastian just laughed and said he'd seen a girl tie herself into a knot back in Starkhaven. Apparently Sebastian was the only one willing to unknot her." He scratched his nose with his free hand, and then said, grinning, "Of course, someone blushed more than _Aveline_ , but your question was so highly specific..."

Anders took the obvious bait, recognising that cast to Hawke's face, the tilt of his eyebrow. He came back to Hawke and leaned against him; when Hawke obligingly slipped an arm around his waist, he placed a hand atop his lover's. "Your mystery contact, I assume?"

"Correct," Hawke said, unable to hide his grin. "The mystery contact, I mean, who turned out to be Carver."

Varric whistled. "Junior? Here? No shit?"

"You're telling me. Apparently a band of Carta dwarves snuck into the Warden fortress with a delivery of wine and went for him," Hawke said. "More 'blood of the Hawke' battle cries, so, being Carver, he assumed it was probably my fault and got on a horse to come down here and yell at me for it. He's already packed for travel, so I'm taking him with us to the Vimmarks tomorrow."

Varric snorted. "Sounds like a fun family outing," he said. "How is Junior?"

"Slightly less resentful than anticipated," Hawke said, thoughtfully. "However, he has a tendency to bottle things up, so at this rate I expect an explosion on the road."

"Fantastic," Anders said, with a sigh. A long trip to the Vimmarks with Fenris and now also _Carver_ , because apparently the Maker hated him; another week or two of being told to shut up any time he expressed anything so much as annoyance with the cruelty and discrimination his people endured. 

The thought wasn't entirely his own, and that worried him. He drew in a deep breath and let it go, and gently wriggled free of Hawke's grip; when he bent down to retrieve Hawke's knapsack from the floor, it helped. He began stuffing Hawke's socks back into it, attempting to wipe some of the drool off against the covers as he did so, and felt Justice stretching inside him, still far too close to the surface. _Let it go,_ he thought. _Hawke believes in us. Our message is getting through to someone._

"I'll leave you two lovers alone for the evening," Varric said, linking his fingers together and stretching out his arms. "You can compose bad poetry or do weird magic shit or whatever it is you enjoy doing together."

Hawke grinned. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"No, I think I can already hazard a guess," Varric said, and held up his hands as if warding off an onslaught. "No, no, don't tell me anything more: save it for Rivaini's friend-fiction. Detail is her middle name. Or possibly her surname, since she's never given that up."

"I'll see you in the morning, Varric," Anders said, staring down at his hands. No blue cracks, for now. He still couldn't shake the fear. Justice hadn't hurt anyone yet, but... He'd come close. Far too close. And Hawke had stopped him, but what if he couldn't, next time? 

At least he'd have Hawke and Varric with him, on the road. That made the prospect of the next week feel a little less claustrophobic. He'd made do with less, he told himself, and tried not to shiver at the feeling of vague disapproval, intensely alien, that rippled through him.

Just a week. A Carta fortress in the mountains. That was all. 

He'd survived worse, surely.

* * *

He came awake very slowly, to a great deal of pain, the hiss and snap of fire, and the sound of someone nearby running a whetstone down a blade. _Harrowing,_ he thought, immediately terrified, and then, belatedly puzzled, _but I passed, years ago -_

"Awake?" The voice was a cool drawl, and Anders felt it like fingers on his spine. He was lying on his side, covered by a scratchy wool blanket that smelled of mold and elfroot; his own. He was not in the Harrowing chamber at Kinloch. And that voice was...

"Fenris," he said, and opened an eye.

The elf was watching him thoughtfully, green eyes fever-bright and unimpressed. He was sat beside a merry little campfire, his expression a dour counterpoint, and had his sword in his lap and his torso curled forward around it. Their packs were strewn in a loose circle around the fire, but the bedrolls were still tied up tight: stopped only for him. Beyond Fenris, the tower loomed over them, ancient and crumbling, and the mist from the stagnant water wreathed its way lazily around them, dyed slightly orange in the firelight.

"Hawke was concerned," Fenris said, making it sound as always as though this were Garrett's deepest character flaw. "You are... yourself, mage?"

Anders could still feel the whispers rattling around his brain, but they were quieter now, muffled. He licked his lips, which were dry and cracked, and swallowed, and sat up with a great deal of complaining from various body parts. Underneath the blankets he'd been stripped to his trousers and boots, and rather expertly bandaged in at least six places; he touched the cloth looped around his hip and winced, remembering the flat of a very large sword slamming into him, Garrett roaring _Don't kill him!_ in the background while Justice shrieked defiance, the voices screaming relentlessly in his head.

"As much as I ever am," he said, unrolling the bandage with care and pressing a glowing blue palm over the heavy bruising. There was a thin cut there, where the very edge of the blade had nicked him where he moved away. He glanced up; the mist was too thick to see very much of anywhere around them, and Fenris was still sneering at him. "Hawke -"

"Is alive," Fenris said. "They went to investigate one of the outbuildings while you awoke. Heal yourself quickly, mage. The less time spent waiting here for your demon to surface again the better."

"Justice is no -" Anders cut himself off, realising the futility of his efforts, especially since even he wasn't sure these days what Justice actually was. He looked away, covering for his discomfort with sarcasm, and reached for the bandage across his shoulder. "Never mind. I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand." There was an actual cut under this one, a finger's width of red bloody flesh, and he winced as he remembered Garrett's bladed staff biting into his flesh, Justice reaching with a palm of blue fire to grab the weapon by the wooden shaft and tugging it free, hissing defiance.

Fenris snorted, passing the stone along the edge of his blade with a sure, authorative gesture that Anders was mostly sure he intended as intimidation. "You're correct. I don't understand why your fade spirit friend would choose to attack us. Perhaps the weakness of the vessel may have contributed."

Anders opened his mouth and then closed it again, leaning forward as he unravelled another bandage from a six inch gash on his upper forearm. Judging from the amount of blood drying on his skin, this one had been a gusher; someone had packed it with an elfroot and adder's tongue moss poultice, which was actually a pretty good way to stop the bleeding and therefore likely hadn't been done by either Garrett or Fenris, who mostly believed in bandages and getting the patient to Anders as quickly as possible. Carver, then.

"Are we likely to be seeing the demon return?" Fenris asked, and Anders closed his eyes. No point in fighting. He couldn't even remember when he had stopped caring when Fenris called him _abomination_.

"No," he said. "I don't think so. The - things I was hearing, seeing - they're quieter now. And that _voice_ \- it's more muffled."

Breaking the first seal had let it in, that hissing foreign presence, slick in his brain like poison, burning all the way down. He'd felt it, the mind in the prison with them, rooting through his thoughts. And it had only gotten worse the deeper they went. By the second seal he'd been stumbling, hearing things that weren't there, distracted by things that didn't exist. Garrett had caught him after he'd tripped on some rubble, too busy listening to a familiar voice screaming from the darkness below, begging that he would _be good_ , that he _wouldn't run away anymore_ , that he would behave if they would just _let him out_.

"I didn't break," he'd said, very urgently, and grabbed hold of Garrett's tunic. "I _didn't_ , they couldn't make me, they took everything but I didn't let them take that - "

"Anders," Hawke had said, uncertainly, and Carver had shaken his head.

"It's this bloody place," he'd said. "He's been tainted longer, might be worse for him."

There had been the blond boy in the homespun wool tunic on the second floor, who had run in front of their small group as they picked their way through a partially-collapsed corridor; Anders had called out to him before he had vanished in a swirl of sparks, realising that everyone else was staring. Then there had been the clattering stomp of Templar armour from one of the prison cells, followed by one of the figures itself, emerging hollow-eyed and in full armour from a shadow, visor down and sword drawn; Anders had leapt sideways and right into Garrett, a swirling blast of ice emerging from his fingertips that had done nothing but freeze the wall. 

_They will come for you,_ the voice had promised. _Free me and we will destroy them all._

"I'm not listening," he'd snarled, clapping both hands over his ears as if the voice were _real_ and the feeble gesture could cold it at bay.

"How unexpected," Fenris had said, all dry boredom, as though he were remarking on the weather. "The abomination's hearing voices."

" _Fenris_ ," Hawke had snapped, and put an arm around Anders's shoulders. Anders tangled his fingers in Hawke's sleeve, the rough texture of the fabric as grounding as Hawke's voice; stared into his eyes in mute desperation, a silent plea for help. Hawke caught his chin in the palm of his free hand, heavy leather glove rasping over his stubble. "Hey. Anders, it's me. I'm right here. It's me. Focus on my voice." 

He'd kept Anders by his side as long as he could, save for the short bursts of Darkspawn battle, and it had been a little easier with his presence and his attention. Until he'd cracked open the third seal, with an apologetic look over his shoulder at Anders, and the voice had become a roar. He'd seen himself in a prison cell on that floor, curled in a wretched ball in the corner, hair haggard, clothes greasy, skin and bones and atrophied muscles; he'd seen Karl, fighting tooth and nail as Templars pressed the brand to his face; he'd seen Hawke, bloodied and beaten and kneeling before Meredith; he'd heard a constant screaming, and the crack of a whip so close he'd sworn the air had moved. 

And in the midst of it all, no matter how far down they went, the relentless droning voice of whatever monstrosity the Wardens had locked up here, unable to control.

Anders pulled the last bandage free, sending a blue-white flicker of energy to heal the scratch and the underlying bruise. The mist was stirring, and he turned his head, feeling that sick greasy _darkspawn_ feel in the very back of his brain that meant they were either about to come under attack or Carver was on his way back, and glanced around for his staff and his clothing. He found the latter, and picked it up as the mist parted and Hawke emerged, looking annoyed, Carver following him. 

"- Just think it's a bloody terrible idea, and you know it is too. That spirit or whatever it is inside him already lost his marbles and you want to go _deeper_?"

Anders's fingers tightened on his staff.

Hawke's expression lightened as soon as he saw Anders. Anders tried to smile, but his face felt numb, almost like... well. He would have said _not my own_ , but after what had happened - he shivered, and Hawke made a beeline straight toward him, crouching down in front of him and seizing his shoulders. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," Anders said, and swallowed. Garrett had an ugly burn on his bare forearm, the skin there bubbled and red; it must hurt tremendously. He reached out without thought to heal it and then stopped himself, worried. He had, after all, caused it. "... May I?"

"What?" Hawke glanced down at the wound. "Oh. You know, there was this holy man I read about, in Nevarra, I think? And he used to drink a small vial of poison every day for years. So, when this group of nobles tried to poison him to death, it didn't work! He had acquired immunity. I'm taking a page out of his book."

"What the hell are you talking about, brother?" Carver asked, looking a lot like Anders felt. Hawke grinned at him over his shoulder.

"I'm gonna kill a dragon someday," he said, "So what's a little burn today?"

Fenris snorted in amusement. "I don't think that's how it works, Hawke."

"If the Hero of Ferelden can do it, so can I," Hawke said, unconcerned. He stood up, offering Anders his hand, which Anders accepted and then reached up to heal the burn. It scarred up, a ribbon of whiter shiny skin, and Anders silently folded the sight of it away as another thing to be sorry for.

"I've met her, you know," Carver said. "She was at Weisshaupt for a week while I was there." He sniffed, rubbing at his face with his forearm. "I thought she'd be taller."

"Nobody's as tall as you, you bloody ox-man," Hawke said. He crossed to his pack and pulled out Anders's shirt and then his coat, neatly folded into quarters. "Here, love. Sorry about the whole, uh, undressing you while unconscious thing. I thought you probably might not want to bleed through your clothes."

Anders took his clothing back and tried to say something, to apologise for the burn and the inconvenience and the fact that Justice had, yet again, put someone in danger. Hawke reached up and caught his face before he could marshal his words, and whispered, "I'm sorry I brought you here, love. I should've realised. I know how you feel about the Deep Roads."

"You needed a healer," Anders said, and Hawke sighed.

"Yes," he said. "I drag you an awful lot of places because I need a healer." He leaned in and Anders had only a second to realise what he was planning before Hawke was kissing him, very softly, to Fenris's disgusted background noise and Carver's low whistle of surprise.

"I _knew_ it," he said, sounding oddly gleeful about the whole thing. "I tried to tell Peaches but she wouldn't listen. Hah! Ugh, Bethy... Bethany and I bet six sovereigns on this, you know. It's a shame she's not here to see it. Or to pay me."

Garrett broke the kiss and smiled at Anders briefly, his eyes darkened in the poor light but filled with regret. "Carver, you've never had six sovereigns before at once _in your life_ ," he said, turning away. "What have I told you about betting coin you can't actually pay?"

"Absolutely nothing," Carver said, "you arse."

Hawke stuck his tongue out childishly. "Yeah, well, you're arse- _er_."

"That's not even a word!"

Fenris's disgusted noise was significantly louder this time, and both brothers cleared their throats. "So, onward and inward, huh?"

"Might as well," Garrett said, with an apologetic look at Anders. "We can't leave anyway. Is it... better now, love?"

Anders realised he'd been standing there, holding onto his clothes, just watching Hawke bicker with his brother. "I..." he licked his lips and began to shrug into his shirt. "Yes. The voice was so loud before, but now it's just... static. No louder than Justice. I can ignore it. It's easier when I'm talking."

Carver nodded. "That's been what it's like for me, too," he said. 

Fenris shifted, plainly still uncomfortable. "This demon of yours -"

"He's not a demon," Hawke said, bending down to pick up Anders's feather pauldrons, stowed carefully behind his pack, as Anders shrugged into his coat. "I've seen Justice before. So have you, remember? Torpor, in the Fade? That thing - whatever it was down here, it wasn't Justice. He really, really, _really_ hates demons, so those shades he summoned? Not Justice."

Anders felt a coil of surprise in him, and wasn't sure if it was his own. "I don't know," he said, because he couldn't trust Justice any more the way his lover did. "I think the - the voices confused him. I'll try harder to resist them. Both of them."

"Mmm," Fenris said, with meaning.

Carver kicked dirt over the small fire, and Anders tried not to notice the stab of fear in his chest as the mist closed in. "Might as well get it over with, then," he said. Hawke extended his hand, lighting a small globe of flame in his palm, and hesitantly Anders did the same as they gathered their packs. Fenris fell naturally to Hawke's right hand side, fingers jittering as he moved at an even lope in the gloom, and where Hawke's flame touched him he glowed. 

Anders had thought Carver would move to be in front too; he had been an impatient soul before, throwing himself headlong into conflict and necessitating plenty of healing on Anders's behalf after the fight ended. Anders wondered briefly when that had ended, and then, feeling somewhat foolish, realized that it had probably been the experience that had led to him becoming a Grey Warden to begin with. Few things made you aware of your own mortality like the taint. The nightmares he suffered through kept him conscious of his.

"You're looking at me, mage." Carver was watching him out of the corner of his eye, still facing forward. Ahead of them Fenris bent his head toward Hawke, said something in a low voice, and Anders turned the silver ring on his thumb slowly counter clockwise, watching as Hawke's face angled toward the elf with his reply.

"That was a pretty good job you did, patching me up," Anders said. 

Carver snorted. "Field medicine," Carver said. "Stroud insisted we all learn. Chantry throws a shit-fit if we recruit too many mages, and the ones we get aren't always healers." His eyes flicked to Anders. "But you probably know that, huh."

"Mmm," Anders said, thinking of Velanna. Fenris reminded him of her more and more each day, although neither of them would have appreciated the comparison. From one elf with a chip on their shoulder to another, it seemed. 

They said nothing as they climbed onto a stone bridge, leading to the entrance of the second tower. Crumbling masonry to their left would've hidden a genlock neatly placed to ambush them, had Anders not called out to Garrett in warning; the monstrous thing came barging out of the shadows to find Fenris poised and ready, lyrium markings aglow. One slash with that greatsword and its head was clean off, sailing through the misty air to land with a splash in the water. Garrett wrinkled his nose and nudged the body with his boot as it collapsed, momentum causing it to slither off the bridge and clearing the path. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned at Anders before continuing, Fenris taking up a place at his side once again.

"My brother seems to care for you," Carver said awkwardly, and Anders stiffened.

"We are _not_ having this talk. Are we?" Carver had been doing so well, too: a man now, willing to interact with Garrett without that bitter curdling whine of jealousy and resentment and distrust mingled into one envious blur in his voice.

"Bloody hell, I hope not. I just..."

Anders glared at him. "You just what?"

"Why _Garrett_?" Carver's whole face was twisted up with confusion.

Anders paused, this not having been the question he'd been expecting. "Pardon?"

"Garrett. Why him? I used to share a room with him, and he's not..." Carver hesitated. "I don't know. And you like him? Really like him, not just, you know, sword-fighting?"

" _Sword-fighting_?"

Carver waved a hand. "Oh, whatever you want to bloody well call it. He used to store food in his beard for later, you know."

"Anders knows," Garrett said quite loudly, not turning around. "Hasn't bothered him yet!"

"It's actually quite a useful trait," Anders said. "The real difficulty lies in trying to stop him from burying acorns in the soft furnishings for the winter."

"Oh, _Maker_ ," Carver murmured, rolling his eyes, and Hawke tossed Anders a conspiratorial wink that made him duck his head, smiling despite himself. He curled his left hand into a fist, turning it side-to-side briefly under the light of the flame in his right hand to admire the ring. In his peripheral vision, he could see Carver scowling at it thoughtfully.

He could still feel the voice, ringing through his mind, whispering that he should know what it was like to be trapped. _Freedom_ , it coaxed, _that's all we want._ Talking made it easier, made it quieter. He squeezed the ring lightly, his thumb drawn to the worn-out grooves of the sigil. 

"The two of you bloody well deserve each other," Carver muttered next to him, and Anders swallowed. If only it were that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter I officially passed my NaNoWriMo word target (30,000 words) today, hooray!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we come to the end of the Legacy DLC, and Anders learns a hard truth about pacifism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, I just wanted to say that this story passed fifty subscriptions over the weekend! It seems like a good milestone to say thank you to everyone who's read it so far. You're all fab, and I hope you're enjoying yourselves.

The descent from the top of the tower took much less time than the initial climb had, in part because most of the trapped darkspawn had been slain. Carver and Fenris took the lead this time, which Anders might have been happy about were it not for the look on Hawke's face; he was distant and distracted, monosyllabic in his replies to Anders's queries, and the worst of it was, Anders thought it was probably his fault.

He'd accepted a long time ago that he'd never live to hear his Calling. It had become part of the fabric of him, man and mage and vessel for a spirit slowly subsiding underneath his anger; he was a Warden, but he'd been told thirty years, and he'd known he'd never make it there. The templars would kill him long before, if they weren't beaten to the chase by an extraordinarily lucky bandit, but either way he'd never given the matter much thought. It was just a certainty, like there being two moons in the sky or water being wet.

But now... he had around his neck not just one blasphemous amulet but two, and a bitter reminder of the poison in his veins. The corruption had run strong in Larius, the ghoul's milky eyes gazing unseeing right through Hawke and Fenris until they spoke, as though their untainted blood rendered them invisible to it. Hawke had asked what a Calling was, and Anders was glad Carver had answered with the line the Wardens gave all their recruits: a noble death in battle, an honourable end for an honourable warrior and so on and so forth.

It wasn't always that way. The Commander had made it plain she would kill herself before succumbing to it, and after seeing the broodmothers, Velanna had quietly agreed, "You go into the dark," the Commander had said. "That doesn't always mean it's the end."

"Voluntarily?" Anders had asked, shuddering. Poisoned veins or not, he wanted the last thing he saw to be the sky. He'd made a promise to himself once, in a cell.

"It's... a good death," the Commander had said, but she wouldn't look at him. "The Legion in Orzammar honour us for it."

He knew then that his future wasn't always going to be with the Wardens, although he was glad enough at the time, with friends and a kitten and the earring she'd given him in his ear, to pretend otherwise. Even to himself. It was easy to put the topic of his death away, somewhere at the back of his mind, when there were drinks to share and card games to lose, and Nate and Sigrun might beat them all at Diamondback but Anders and Oghren between them were the reigning champions of _Never have I ever_ and it was... the easiest thing in the world, to forget ghouls and corruption and dying.

Hawke wasn't a Warden, though. Hawke hadn't known. And neither his lover nor his brother had ever told him, and Anders knew it wasn't much of a defence to say, _I thought I'd be dead before I became like Larius_ , but it was the truth.

They met up with Varric on the edges of the Carta's base camp, who took one look at their faces and fished out a flask of dwarven-strength whisky from his pack ; Hawke took it first and downed half the flask in one go, throat hard at work, before wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and tossing the remainder to Fenris. "Well," he said. "Let's not do that again."

"What did you find?" Varric asked, sounding rather as though he would rather Hawke didn't answer.

"Oh, prime novel material," Hawke said. "Lies, secrets, Grey Warden mysteries, an ancient evil, and apparently my father was a maleficarum! It was an adventure worthy of the greatest of pulp fiction - Anders, a word?"

Anders winced, watching as Fenris unstoppered the flask and carefully sniffed the contents before recoiling. Hawke didn't wait for him to reply; with his jaw set, Garrett simply caught him by the elbow and dragged him away from the campfire.

They walked along sandy dunes for several paces, far enough to be out of the range of even Fenris's sharp elven ears. Hawke's grip was firm but not cruel; Justice stirred protectively inside Anders and, furiously, Anders pushed him back, with a mental snarl. _You've done enough to him,_ he thought, and knew it was directed as much at himself as his spirit. To his bitter surprise, Justice actually seemed to listen to him, for a first, and he felt the presence of his friend subside, that unique corner of his mind that still somehow echoed of Justice after all this time fading quietly.

Hawke let him go in the lee of a rock formation that closely resembled a collapsed column, a great needle-shaped rock several stories taller than the estate pivoted on its side. Shale and broken red boulders covered the base, and in the moonlight Hawke's expression was almost impossible to read; light glinted off the metal of his armour, and the red streak over his nose was just another shadow in the gloom. 

For a long moment they just looked at each other, Anders unsure what he could possibly say to make it right. To make up for his own lie by omission. _I'm sorry_ didn't seem to cover it; _you should find someone else, love_ had been resoundingly rejected at some point between the second and third seals. He could just about make out the whites of Hawke's eyes, and made himself look, made himself hold that gaze. He had so little he could offer in consolation.

"Anders," Hawke said, very quietly. His voice shook, as if with some great tension, and Anders hardly dared blink. "You -" He cut himself off, stepped back; lifted both hands and placed them atop his head. Anders heard him breathe in and out, rasping breaths; when Hawke whirled back to him, came at him, his body instinctively tensed - but Hawke's hands cradled his face with surprising gentleness, and when Hawke kissed him, whisky breath and all, Anders let him.

It wasn't a passionate kiss, not the way it might have been had it been just the two of them in another time, another place. Hawke was weeping, almost unashamedly, and Anders tasted the salt between them when they parted, came back again. He slid a hand up behind Hawke, holding him half as tightly as Hawke held him; cupped a shoulderblade in his palm, thought, _I wish I didn't do this to you._

Selfish didn't even begin to cover it, he thought, rather bitterly; he closed his eyes and buried his face in Hawke's shoulder, the better to ignore the way they stung. He would not weep. He'd promised himself that, too; so many things had changed in that cell, but he'd held onto those promises so far. He would not die in the dark, and he'd never let the world see his tears. When he had nothing at all, he'd had those simple truths to hold onto. He remembered that, even as Hawke shook against him with the force of his own, terrible grief.

Eventually, Hawke calmed. He drew back, his face still hidden in shadow, and Anders lifted his hands and wiped his cheeks with the pad of his thumbs. "I love you," he said, quietly.

"I know," Hawke said, stiffly. "... This is a mess, isn't it? Maker's breath. How long?"

Anders didn't need to ask what Hawke might be referring to. The hollow, scared look in his eyes, the smudged dark circles beneath them of bruised-blue transparency - these things spoke volumes. "Thirty years at most, the Commander said," Anders said. "It's been four."

Hawke nodded, not looking at him; he was staring up at the sky, at the scattered smudged band of stars marching over the horizon. "This is why you said yes to Justice, isn't it? You thought you were already dead."

"No," Anders said, and was surprised to feel an echo of agreement. "I was already dead the moment my magic manifested. I agreed to the Wardens because I thought it was better than a slow death in the Circle. I agreed to Justice to save myself from the templars. I escaped several times; I knew my days were numbered. It seemed... easier." Very gently, he added, "Nothing's really changed, my love. I joined because I thought they'd kill me before the Taint could."

"And you still think that," Hawke said, still looking up at the sky, like the moons held all the answers. "Don't you? Even with me, even with the Underground and Alrik dead and me, a free mage. You're still waiting for the guillotine to drop."

A curl of defensiveness. "It's all I've known," Anders said. "The Wardens or the Templars will have me eventually, love. I've no illusions about that."

And now Hawke looked at him, really looked at him, and Anders flinched at what he saw there; the grief, the anger. In a low voice, shaking with some odd sort of rage, Hawke snarled, "No. _No_."

"Hawke," Anders said, carefully.

Hawke shook his head; his teeth were bared. He strode away from Anders, his hands going to his hair. " _No_ ," he hissed. "I am _done_ giving things up to the fucking chantry. I am _done_ hating myself for my magic. I'm - they took my childhood, they took safety, they had my father so fucking desperate he turned to _blood magic_ just to make a family - _no_. They _will not_ have _you_. And I don't care if I have to butcher half a hundred Alriks with my bare hands to make that happen. Never!"

Anders's heart squeezed in his chest, so powerfully he thought he might gasp from the force of it. A strange sort of purpose filled him, a nauseating wave of giddiness; sparks cracked between his fingertips. He felt bathed in energy, powerful in a dizzying sort of way; it filled him up inside, and it was all his, nothing he could point to and say, _this is Justice_. "They are cruel and corrupt," he said, and his voice was entirely his own and yet...

Hawke looked at him. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes shone like dark gold. Anders had never seen him so ferocious; not his Garrett, his lover with his lopsided smile and his clever tongue, his sarcastic Hawke who told jokes and shared witticisms so nobody would see how he really felt. This man seemed half a stranger to him, coldly furious, and yet Anders knew him well, in spirit if nothing else. 

He doubted the Warden-Commander would recognize him now, either.

"I love you," he told Hawke, and closed the gap between them; felt Hawke's arms go around him, slipped his hands to the small of Hawke's back. Hawke was still shivering, but Anders doubted it was from the cold, and after a moment his lover let out an odd keening noise and buried his face in Anders's hair, fury breaking back to grief. Anders just held him close, and wished he could believe in Hawke the way Hawke believed in him.

 _Elthina_. The manifesto was almost finished. He'd spent most of the walk to the mountains rehearsing his speech mentally. He had to work, it had to _help_ ; he'd worked so hard, and the documents were... he had so much evidence. If he could make things in the Gallows better, if he could make them easier - maybe the other Circles would follow. Maybe someday a mage would have a family, and need not turn apostate and maleficarum, hiding his children from the templars across the entirety of Ferelden. 

He squeezed his hand into a fist, against Hawke's back, felt the ring. Hawke drew in a long, deep breath, pressed a scratchy kiss to the crown of his head before letting him go; he wiped his face clean against his sleeve, and Anders loved him and was so scared for him simultaneously that it quite left him breathless.

At the very least, he had to try. For mages, for Karl, and for Hawke, more than anything. He felt a sharp sting in his chest, disapproval from Justice: _distraction_ ; he pushed it aside. Hawke was no distraction; he was the focal point, the best reason Anders had to fight as hard as he did, and he would break Hawke's heart, but he was just selfish enough not to give him up.

Maybe it was a weakness, or a cruelty. He didn't know. He was sure of nothing, these days.

* * *

"What are you doing here?"

The sun was setting, and the light pouring in through the windows was red and orange; it swept across the nave, and painted the statues with warm living colours. Anders paused by one of them, admiring the artistry: Andraste, of course, hooded and cloaked and carved from cold white marble. The artist had spent a lot of time painstakingly depicting every fold in the shrouding fabric, although the small rectangle of Andraste's face beyond her veil seemed oddly blank, depicted without even so much detail as eyelashes. He lowered his taper, touching the flame to one of the unlit candles.

"Anders. What are you doing here?" The voice sounded uncertain, as though the speaker knew better than to confront him. Anders blew the taper out and returned it to its rightful place before he turned to face Sebastian Vael, shifting the leather folder under his arm into a more comfortable position.

"I have a meeting with Her Grace," he said. He didn't bother greeting Sebastian. Niceties had no place here, moreso when they would be lies.

"A meeting," Sebastian repeated, then sighed. "You come, of course, to speak of the mages. Again. Elthina understands your plight, Anders -"

"And has done nothing about it," Anders said, coolly. "Yes. I am aware. I have to keep trying. Nobody else will, after all, and isn't perseverence a virtue in your faith?"

" _My_ faith?" Sebastian fell in beside him as he made his way to the staircase. "Hawke told me you were more of a believer than he, mage, despite your... odd interpretation of some of the Maker's tenants."

"I was," Anders said. "I still believe. Perhaps not the way you do, but I believe, _Prince_ Vael."

"Fenris told me some of what transpired in the Vimmarks," Sebastian said, ignoring the petty dig. "I am told you have quite an interesting amulet in your collection."

Anders snorted. Corypheus's amulet, with that long-forgotten pattern, had been buried in a small iron lockbox in the estate's small town garden, underneath Leandra's rhodadenrums. The Imperial Chantry amulet had joined it, after only a moment's hesitation. The flow of important guests invading the estate had not abated - had only increased, following their return from the mountains - and Anders could not risk such a thing being discovered in Hawke's bedroom. "Ask Fenris," he said. "He knows the same as me. He was there too."

"I do not understand how you can claim to believe in the Maker, and yet abandon the very basics -"

"Are you going to quote Transfigurations at me? Do you not think that every mage ever dragged up by a Circle - it's not raising, not really - hasn't got that one _memorised_? You might as well tattoo it on our brows, around the Tranquil brand many of you want us to wear!" Justice stirred under his skin and Anders turned away sharply, breathing through his nose. Sebastian hadn't seen Justice, and even if Fenris had prattled away that little secret too, no Templars had yet kicked in Hawke's door for him. It would not do to give them a reason. Glowing in the middle of the Chantry, shortly before sundown service, would not help. 

Sebastian was looking at him pityingly. "We have never seen eye-to-eye, Anders. The Grand Cleric agrees with you that some of the barbarities inflicted upon mages cannot continue. If you have evidence, then I am sure she will hear it, but you _must_ let this rage go. Mages need guidance, and help. The Templars are there for your protection, you must see - "

"'All things in this world are finite. What one man gains, another has lost. Those who steal from their brothers and sisters do harm to their livelihood, and to their peace of mind. Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart.' Our freedom has been stolen for too long, with nothing to show for it."

"Misquoting the Chant will do your cause no favour with the Grand Cleric," Sebastian said, quietly. "Perhaps if you were to study it at length, you would -"

" _No_." He was shaking. He forced himself to walk away, before Justice really did break free. Sebastian did not know. Nobody knew, not even Hawke. The Warden Commander knew some of it; she had asked, and it had been so fresh in his mind he had told her, still drunk on his freedom, on the wind in his face and the sheer _size_ of a world beyond the cell. _Solitary confinement_. Such a small phrase, for a shrunken world. Four walls, him, and a dog-eared copy of the Chant to read by the daylight that crept in around the edges of his bolted door.

Read it he had, over and over and over, shaking fingers tracing every occurrence of the word _love_ on the pages as he told himself _I am loved. He gave me this life and He does not make mistakes. I am not alone. I am loved._ A chant all his own he had held onto, when the light failed and darkness came, and the words on the pages became harder to see. _He made me this way, with this magic. I am not alone, I am loved._

He did not need to study the Chant; he had lived with it for a year, knew it like four square walls, smeared with blood from scraped-raw fingernails. It was part of him, like the scars he carried in his flesh. He tried not to think about it, keeping it at the very back of his mind, locked up tight with the other dark memories, but Corypheus had broken that lock, taking what he wanted, and it still felt raw. He took a moment to breathe deeply outside of Elthina's office, aware of Sebastian's boots on the plush carpet, and pushed it all down again. The mages needed him, and he tried to give them everything he had. 

"Anders," Sebastian said, in a low voice. Anders ignored him and knocked on the door, a sharp pattern of three short raps. 

"Come in," called a familiar voice from inside, and he pushed it open, ignoring the man behind him.

Elthina's desk was carved of rich mahogany, gold-leaf patterns swirling elegantly around the edges. It was clean, aside from a precisely-placed tray with a small stack of papers on it, and a crystal chalice filled with water at her right hand. She smiled at him warmly as he entered, gesturing to the chair in front of her, carved of the same wood with a soft velvet cushion. "Good evening, child," she said, very gently. "Sebastian."

Anders placed the leather folder on his lap, undoing the brass clasps holding it closed. He'd borrowed it from Garrett's writing desk, deciding it looked appropriately impressive for this meeting, although that did mean Hawke's tax-documents were heaped untidily next to his journal. He was cleanly-shaven, for once, his hair washed thoroughly and tied back using a blue silk ribbon, and he'd finally had his boot buckles repaired, so that he could eschew the usual bandages holding the right boot up. Hawke had even talked him into borrowing one of his fancy Hightown coats just for this meeting. It was black, lined with red silk, and Orana had had to take it in at the shoulders by a surprisingly large amount for it to fit correctly. He hoped it all helped.

"Your Grace," Sebastian said, standing still in the doorway, "Is there anything you require?"

"I am sure all will be well, Sebastian," Elthina said. "Anders. Would you care for refreshment?"

"No, thank you," Anders said calmly, shuffling the papers, trying to decide where to start. He'd brought everything with him; Alrik's papers; the letter on the lieutenant who had come for him and Karl; the witness statements written by the mages the underground had freed; his manifesto, the final draft of it, years in the making and the result of countless rewrites, suggestions by Hawke scribbled on the edges of the pages left throughout the estate. 

"You may leave us, Sebastian," Elthina said, and the door closed quietly behind him. 

"I have come to speak to you of the mages in the Gallows," Anders said, keeping his voice respectful and low. "I know it is a topic we have spoken on many times, Grand Cleric, and I... appreciate your reluctance to act without proof of the nature of the evil wrought against them. I have brought with me a number of eyewitness accounts of cruelties I think you should read, Your Grace. I have made the effort on your behalf to try, where possible, to find the names of the Templars responsible, as well as the dates and times of the events, in order to aid you should you wish to perform your own investigation."

Elthina held out her hand and Anders passed the wad of eyewitness stories over her desk, hoping she did not see how badly his hands were shaking, and how much he needed this. She settled the papers in front of her, neatly tucking the edges together, and began to read the first one; an elvhen mage named Yvanna had written it, her hand shaking so badly droplets of ink spilled all over the place, tears pouring down her face as she dragged out all the memories from her own deeply buried mental hiding place and threw them onto the page. 

She was in Rivain now, not that Anders would ever give that detail up. Selby had gotten her out in a night soil cart, and Anders had shattered her phylactery himself, accompanied by a rogue named Gheria whose son had been taken at the age of six and branded at thirteen. Gheria herself had died a few months after that mission, templars smashing in her door and 'arresting' her with far too much violence; she had never seen a magistrate's court.

"I know this name," Elthina said. "This woman, she is an apostate now, is she not? How did you come by this testimony, child?"

"A friend," Anders said, and hoped his deadpan was better than it was when he was losing at cards to literally every single one of Hawke's friends.

"It is deeply troubling."

"Yes."

"Did this apostate make the effort to approach this Templar's superior officer following the... actions described here? This is the correct procedure, and all mages within a Circle should be made aware of this."

"She contacted the Knight-Corporal's direct superior. Notes were taken. Nothing happened."

Elthina frowned. "She was told this, or observed no result?"

"She observed no change. The abuses continued."

"The details of a disciplinary procedure cannot be shared with anyone upon request, but must be kept between -"

"There was no change," Anders interrupted anxiously, and winced. He could not afford to lose control of his emotions, not now; it would be too easy to lose his audience. He raised a hand briefly and settled back in the chair. "My apologies, Your Grace. If a disciplinary was performed, it was ineffective. If Your Grace reads further, this Templar's name occurs in multiple accounts, and he is still on active duty. My sources also suggested to me that he is regularly on Harrowing duty and - and does not always wait for the sand to run out before striking."

Elthina brushed her thumb carefully over the paper. "If a mage is possessed, the Templar overseeing the Harrowing is not required to wait for the sand to run out. This is Chantry law, child."

"Sometimes they aren't always conscious," Anders said quietly. "Your Grace, I have been Harrowed myself. Destroying the body whilst the mind travels the Fade is not a death. It is a severing. The mind remains where it is."

The Grand Cleric pursed her lips. "The Harrowing is as much a measure of an apprentice's ability to traverse the Fade in short intervals as it is of their ability to resist temptation," Elthina said, but raised a hand when Anders shifted uncomfortably. "I will speak with the Knight-Commander and ask her to remind her Templars that the hourglass should be drained before striking."

Anders swallowed. "Thank you, your grace, but the templar -"

"I will also ask the First Enchanter to remind his charges of their rights," she said. "Failure to adhere to procedure set in place expressly for the safety of mages does not excuse apostasy." _Yes it does,_ Anders thought, with a flash of irritation, _when the response is indifference or worse._ A flicker of impatience ran through him, in tandem with the thought; Justice felt they were wasting time here. He licked his lips, schooling his features into calmness. 

Elthina lifted the topmost page, her eyes skimming over the next page. "The Templar here died in the line of duty. She was killed two nights ago attempting to capture a blood mage."

(Thessalee had been sixty-two years old and cornered. She had taken out six Templars with only the help granted her by a simple rage demon, the first to be attracted to desperate mages. Selby had tossed her head when she told him the tale, her mouth thin and flat. "More of them dead than us," she'd said, "but they can afford to lose more than we can."

"Turning abomination helps nobody," Anders had said, numbly. "They use it as excuse to slaughter the rest of us wholesale!"

"Hard to hold onto the moral high ground when it's your throat the Templars mean to slit," Selby had replied, and Anders had looked away. He knew that better than most, perhaps. Justice had tingled disapprovingly somewhere deep within.)

There was silence for a time, other than the fire burning merrily in Elthina's grate. She skimmed all of Anders's reports, her face immobile, her eyes expressionless. At last she let the pages drop, tidying them neatly together. "These make for unpleasant reading, child. It is clear there is a lack of discipline at work within the Gallows. The mages seem unwilling to take full responsibility for their actions, and the Templars push them harder because of it." She steepled her fingers and gazed down at the papers, frowning. "Knight-Commander Meredith is currently implementing a new measure to stamp out corruption within the Order."

"But what of the mages?" Anders said, sharper than he had meant to. "How can you read those accounts and - and decide to wait for Meredith to fix it? These abuses have gone unchecked for _years_ , Your Grace, many under Meredith's leadership - "

"Knight-Commander," Elthina said mildly.

"... Knight-Commander Meredith has no interest in protecting the mages," Anders said, "Only in appealing to Val Royeux. Surely you must see this. The new Divine ascends and the Knight-Commander - what, decides now to cleanse the Order of corruption?"

"I think you see motives that are not necessarily there, child," Elthina said, chidingly. "The Knight-Commander is charged with the protection of the mages under her care, as is the First Enchanter. It is true that the Knight-Commander and First Enchanter of the Gallows do not operate as smoothly nor with as much cooperation as perhaps may be expected in some Circles - "

"They'd kill each other in a heartbeat," Anders said. "How can they be expected to lead a Circle? Your Grace, I - the Knight-Commander does not grant the First Enchanter the power that she should. You are their superior. It is within your power to make the Knight-Commander loosen her hold on the Circle, and the mages within it." He leaned forward, anxiously. "The mages here are treated little better than prisoners. You must have seen that, in the accounts, and if you doubt it then I urge you to visit the Gallows for yourself! See for yourself how it is to be a mage under Knight-Commander Meredith's care, Your Grace. I assure you it is unpleasant."

Elthina fussed with the edges of the papers, re-aligning them. "I have much sympathy for the mages in the Gallows, child. Do not think me without compassion. But I cannot restrict the Knight-Commander's power without restricting the First Enchanter's also. I cannot be seen to take sides in this, else my weakness will be exploited."

"By whom?" Anders could feel his frustration growing. It was falling apart now, despite his best efforts. Justice flexed within him, and he curled his left hand into a tight fist, thumb pressing up against the sigil of his ring; breathed in and out, tried for calm and even as he continued, "Mages are trapped, tortured and abused every day half a city away - who could you be so afraid of, Your Grace?"

She didn't look at him. "There are forces you do not understand, child," she said, and the sheer condescension of it struck him like a knife in the heart. 

"I am no child," he said. "Perhaps the Champion could help you. He would if you asked, he - he helps everyone." His voice cracked, and he licked his lips and pushed forward, hating himself for it. "Under Meredith's -"

"Knight-Commander."

"Under the Knight-Commander's rule, Chantry law has been broken. This is something you can demonstrably do something about, with no repercussions." He pushed Alrik's letters across the desk to her, watching her frown as she took them. "Karl Thekla passed his Harrowing. It was illegal for him to have been made Tranquil. He was not the only victim of Ser Alrik's plans."

"Ser Alrik is dead, and his plans died with him. I told the Champion this much, when he brought the papers here." She eyed him over the top of them. "Serah Hawke did not take the news well."

Anders winced. _Hawke what?_ "Your Grace - "

"The incident with Enchanter Thekla was a tragedy," she said, "But the Maker has seen fit to punish the man responsible." _No,_ Anders thought, _that was not the Maker's Justice._ "There is nothing to be gained holding the entire Order to one man's misguided beliefs - "

"But he didn't act alone! How can his co-conspirators go unpunished?" Anders burst out. "Every single one of _us_ is held against _every single one of us_. Every blood mage is further proof that we are, all of us, to be mistrusted, and nobody questions why that mage turned to blood magic in the first place! Your Grace, I was in Kinloch Hold for nearly twenty years - "

"More or less," Elthina said. "You were somewhat slippery, as I understand it."

"I... yes. I..." Anders said, uncertainly, momentum robbed. "In Kinloch Hold there were fewer than three documented cases of blood magic a year. For a decade and a half! The Knight-Commander claims the Gallows has twice as many cases than that every _month_. Surely that should be a sign that there is something fundamentally wrong?"

Elthina took a sip of her water, the light from the fire playing off the crystal. The last of the daylight had slipped completely from the window, now. "I cannot help but feel that Kinloch Hold is perhaps not the best example you could have chosen, child," she said, carefully. "Many would say that Knight-Commander Greagoir could have prevented the tragedy there if he had only been as steadfast as Knight-Commander Meredith."

Anders leaned forward desperately. "Mages are _dying_ , your Grace," he said. "Please. You must tell Knight-Commander Meredith to stop. If - if you cannot, then you must replace her. Very soon there will be no mages left in the Gallows for her to rule, only Tranquil and corpses, and Alrik's _plan_ will have come to pass regardless." He jabbed desperately at the letter from Alrik, the letter in which Karl had been reduced a thing, something the Order could destroy. "Surely you must see - "

A rap on the door made Anders turn sharply. "Come in," Elthina said, and the door opened. "Hawke," Anders said, startled, and then felt a deep sense of betrayal creep on him as he glanced back at Elthina. "What do you... Your Grace?"

Hawke looked as surprised to see him as Anders had been, although that expression quickly faded in favour of anger. "Please tell me you didn't send Sebastian to get me just to get rid of Anders," he said to Elthina, colder than Anders had heard him since they'd hunted down the mage who had killed his mother. Sebastian was at his side, his gaze on Anders, and Hawke turned back to him. "You said Her Grace wanted to speak to me -"

Elthina smoothly pushed her chair back. "Champion," she said, tidying Alrik's papers on top of the accounts Anders had given her. "If you would kindly give us a moment -"

"No," Hawke snapped. "Just listen to him -"

"Hawke," Anders said, and barely recognised his own voice, hollow and lost. "It's alright. I didn't have anything more to say anyway." He pushed his chair back, reaching abortively for his papers; Elthina watched him but made no move to hand them over, and he drew back, empty handed. He wondered if he'd see them again. He wondered if they'd make it beyond the fire crackling in its grate. 

"I will think on what you have said, child," she said, as he tucked the chair under her desk.

"Thank you, Your Grace," he said. Sebastian moved aside for him, granting him room to leave; Hawke jerked, like he wanted to reach out, and stopped himself just in time. Anders felt exhausted, a hundred years older than he was. 

"Anders," Hawke said, and Anders paused on the landing. 

"I'm going back to the estate," he said. "I'll see you there, Hawke."

Justice rustled in his forethoughts as he made his way through the Chantry, feeling the eyes of the junior sisters and mothers on his back as he walked. It was his fault, he knew, for pinning so much hope on this. He'd thought if he just brought all the evidence, nobody could deny the wrongs committed in the Gallows, and that would be all it would take to effect real meaningful change; Justice had thought it not enough, wanted to push for complete freedom, but Anders had thought better living conditions a decent enough start. He should have known Elthina had already made up her mind to do nothing. Humouring him, that's all she'd ever been doing, and the weight of it pressed down on his shoulders as he made his way slowly from the Chantry to their home. Not that he'd call it that, in front of Elthina, or Sebastian. 

It hurt. It had been a long time since anything had hurt this much. Not since they'd taken Karl from him, reassigned him in the dead of night and only thought to tell Anders the morning after, giving him not even one last night with his - friend. _Don't think about what he was. Push it down._ He'd had anger to sustain him since then, a fury within him at the entire system; even at its calmest it was a bitter snarl in his chest. It was gone now, and he felt empty, like a cracked egg shell. He couldn't even get Varric to listen. What chance had he had - what chance had he ever had - of convincing Elthina?

And now the only thing between Meredith and what she wanted was _Hawke_. How long would it be until she found a chink in his armour? How long until Kirkwall spoke less of the Champion's courage and kindness, and more of his apostasy? Until the rumours of blood magic began to swirl in like the chokedamp? Hawke first, then him. Or maybe she'd get to Hawke through him, instead. He didn't know.

They would take it all away. He'd been foolish to think he had a chance. He passed a shaking hand over his face, and there, in the midst of Hightown, the moonlight bright and silver on his back, he began to laugh. There was nothing else he could do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric discovers a love of Antivan wineglasses, and Hightown puzzles over Anders's formal title.

He finished in the clinic earlier than he'd meant to, but after waiting half a candle-mark while he washed out bandages and scrubbed down walls and cots for patients to show up, he had to concede that he was done for the day. He hung the laundry up to dry, carefully stored the potions and poultices in the appropriate crates, and closed the door behind him when he left, extinguishing the brazier over the door with a flick of his hand.

The cellar door had been left slightly ajar for him, and he kindled a small ball of blue flame in his palm in order to pick his way past the crates and boxes of medical supplies he'd heaped up next to the entrance. Taking a deep breath, he closed the door behind him and headed on through the network of rooms, following the route Hawke had taught him to dodge all the traps Isabela and Varric had placed over the years. It was routine, by now.

In his pocket, the slip of paper the docks messenger had given him crinkled with each step. It was such a little thing, so few words, and yet he could feel exhaustion pushing at the edges of his mind every time he thought about it. Justice was spitting coals; he'd probably settle for no less now than a march on the Gallows. Whatever chance Justice had had of learning subtlety was long-gone, taken by Anders's own temper. _We'll die,_ he reminded the spirit, as he pushed open the secret door and emerged into the wine cellar, which was much less dusty although did unfortunately smell of dog. This was easily explained by the fact that Dog was there, crunching slurpily away at what looked like a horse's femur bone trapped between his enormous forepaws, stubby tail wagging.

"Hello, old boy," Anders said wearily. "What are you doing down here?"

"Messere?" A shadow near the door moved abruptly and Anders jerked, the ball of blue light in his hand instantly winking into a fireball ready to throw. The figure threw her hands up. "Please, messere, it's me!"

"Orana?" Now this made less sense. Orana didn't skulk around in the wine cellar if she could help it; not when Hawke had given her the garden, and a lute to play within it. "What...?"

"Messere Hawke said you might be back soon," Orana said anxiously. "He said you'd probably forgotten about the party."

Anders felt his brow wrinkle, and then his heart sink. _Shit_. Hawke's bloody party. Garrett had told him about it - Maker, what, three weeks ago now, right after that last pointless meeting with Elthina? He'd been heartbroken, curled up listlessly in one of the library armchairs, staring miserable at the detritus on the writing desk. There were a couple forgotten pages of his manifesto - old drafts, two of which he'd decided to cut in the name of brevity, one of which Hawke had talked him into merging with his section on corporal punishment and its role in encouraging blood magic as a fear-response. Hawke had been pacing back and forth in front of the fire, spitting sparks and ranting about what they could do to get Elthina to listen; Anders had been staring at those drafts and thinking that there was no _point_. At some point he'd gotten to his feet and thrown the papers into the fire, Hawke lunging to stop him too late.

"Anders," Hawke had said, reaching out to grab his wrists, and Anders had glanced away. Hawke's eyes were fervent. "We can't just give up. That useless old bat gave you the run-around, but maybe if we - if I -"

"It doesn't matter," Anders had said, because it didn't, and he was sorry, now, that he had ever thought it might. Three years he'd held himself apart from Hawke, wishing change; three years wasted. Nothing he said would change anything. He could see that now. "The plight of mages is not a popular one."

"Then we'll _make_ it popular," Hawke had snapped, and leaned in to give Anders a lightning-quick kiss on his cheek. "I've got letters to write."

"Don't," Anders had said, the word barely a breath on his lips. The weight of Hawke's magic hung heavily around his neck, and he wondered if that hadn't been Meredith's goal, to bind both of them to her in good behaviour, using their love as a noose. Hawke had never been discrete about it, seeking to protect Anders with his open patronage. This was perhaps the price they paid.

Hawke let his hand catch fire, and Anders flinched; habit was a hard thing to break. "This isn't just about you," Hawke said, and Anders wished that could be true. Hawke had to be kept apart from the worst of what Anders needed to do. Justice would not let him settle, and he could not drag Hawke down with him. Quietly Hawke let go of his wrist, and said, "This is bigger than either of us."

He'd been wining and dining almost nightly with various men and women of the city since then, coming home later than usual and curling around Anders in the bed. In the dark Anders held onto him as tightly as he dared. Bancroft had buckled down in Sundermount, scared off the Gallows by increased Templar fanaticism; Anders could not trust himself, nor Justice; and Selby... Well. In many ways, receiving her letter had not come as a surprise. She wasn't a mage, like Bancroft nor himself, and Anders wondered in his heart of hearts how long one could struggle against an oppression only experienced second-hand. Most of the non-mage members of the Underground had bowed out long before her, scared by the brutal Templar raids on suspected members friends and family; it was exactly what Meredith wanted. 

Anders split his time now mostly between the clinic and Hawke's various misadventures. He'd thought Garrett might appreciate the extra attention. Instead it seemed to make him sad, and Anders didn't know what to do about it, because he was so bloody _tired_.

"Messere," Orana said, and Anders groaned and passed a hand over his face.

"I'll go to the Hanged Man," he said. He wasn't exactly dressed for impressing the city's elite, and there was no way to their bedroom without walking right through the entrance hall. He checked his pockets and came up with fifty silver, enough to rent a room for the night from Corf; if no rooms were available Varric had a perfectly good rug. He glanced up at at Orana's small noise. "What's the matter?"

Orana was looking a little crestfallen. "Messere wanted to be told when you came home."

Anders sighed. Looked like he was in for it tonight. "Alright, then," he said, keeping his voice gentle; Orana deserved nothing less. "I'll wait here while you do that. Tell him that if he wants me to go to this party, I'll need clothes. And a wash-basin."

"I can get you that," she said eagerly, and left through the door into the servant's quarters. As she opened it, Anders caught the faint sussuration of conversation above. A party. Fantastic.

The dog crunched heavily on the bone, and made a rather alarming slurping noise as he tried to get more of the marrow out. Anders crossed to sit on the bench near him and leaned his head back against the wall, his hands curled loosely on his thighs. He'd just wanted to come home, maybe have dinner with Hawke, if Hawke still hadn't eaten, and go to bed with him; ever since the messenger had given him that slip of paper he'd felt odd, sort of dizzy, queasy. It was sort of like that horrid greasy feeling he got around Darkspawn, but it was in _all_ of him, and it made him hunch his shoulders and curl in on himself. 

When the door swung open again, Anders climbed slowly to his feet, using his staff as a support; Hawke paused in the doorway, his face blank, illuminated in the blue of Anders's orb of light. They looked at each other for a long time, and then Anders felt something in his chest snap; he didn't know what his face looked like but Hawke pushed himself off the wooden door frame and came to him, grasping him in a firm embrace. "Who's dead?" 

Anders turned his face into Hawke's hair, holding onto him as tightly as he dared. "Nobody," he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracking, "but - um." He leaned away, shoving the slip of paper from his pocket at Hawke's chest, and held the light higher as Hawke unfurled it and began to read.

When he had finished the paper burst into flame, Hawke holding it as it curled and blackened, and then threw it aside with disgust. Anders watched the embers of it, the glow as it burnt itself out. "She was the last one, wasn't she? After you."

"No," Anders said. "Bancroft is hiding closer to the city. They were the last active members, the two of them."

"If we get to the docks, could we catch her in time?"

"I doubt it. Selby was already boarding when she sent the message."

Hawke's hands, holding loosely onto his forearms, tightened. "They haven't even got any evidence, have they? Maker's fucking arsehole, this cannot have been lawful. I know Meredith finds the legal system an inventive waste of time, but it still exists, strangely. Or so the Captain of the Guard keeps reminding me."

"Who's going to stop her?" Anders hated how dull he sounded. "Aveline?" He snorted. "They're stripping the guard out of the Keep, you know, moving templars in instead. Dumar is dead and Meredith blocks the election of a new Viscount. Without one, what can anyone do? Elthina won't act. Who else could leash Meredith?"

Garrett leaned forward to rest their foreheads together, his eyes closed; Anders breathed in deeply, shuddering with the movement, and then impulsively shifted to kiss him. Hawke's mouth tasted like wine, and his lips were gentle even as his beard scraped over Anders's stubble. "The nobles aren't happy. They all want to be the Viscount. It's their traditional right to elect one, and Meredith won't let them. It's just muttering, at the moment."

"Hence why there's a bunch of noblewomen bombarding the estate every day inviting you to tea, hmm?" Anders frowned. "I'm sure their daughters follow you around everywhere."

Hawke chuckled, his eyes flashing briefly in the poor light. "Not so much. You're not even really an open secret, love." He took Anders's hand in his, lacing their fingers together; his thumb briefly rubbed against the silver ring and he smiled. "How long ago did I give you this now, two years?"

"Something like that," Anders said quietly. 

The door opened behind Hawke, admitting Orana, who carried Anders's formal outfit, purchased for him by Hawke a couple weeks ago, and Sandal, who carried a small tub of warm water. Steam curled into whisps above it, and Anders felt acutely grubby. Hawke kissed him again before thanking his household staff; Sandal clapped and Orana executed a beautiful curtsey. "Messere, they're starting to wonder about you above stairs," she said, and Hawke groaned like a dying bronto, an unexpected and not hugely flattering noise.

"I'll be up in a moment," he said, and turned back to Anders. "Listen, love," he said. "You don't have to come. If you want to sneak out that way and hide for the evening that's fine, just ask Orana to get you some food together before you go. But if you do want to come, I think I should warn you that there are - uh - templars above."

Anders's hand tightened on his, and he _knew_ he glowed; it was suddenly brighter within the cellar, harsh shadows standing out against the blue. Sandal's eyes were wide as saucers, mouth curved in a grin. Sandal liked Justice. The feeling was mutual. Hawke winced, gently pulling his hand free. "Templars."

"Yes," Hawke said. "Just a few, but I couldn't have a party without inviting a few of them. Thankfully Meredith wrote me back to say that she was too busy to come, but Cullen's here, and Thrask, and that one with the goldfish face we rescued ages ago, remember? You electrocuted him. It was adorable."

"Flatterer," Anders said, because he didn't know what else to say. He shifted his weight away from Hawke, uncertainly; Hawke reached out and caught him by the sleeve, lifting his hand to his mouth, and kissed the blue cracks over his knuckles. "Templars, Hawke? _Cullen_?"

"Yes," Hawke said. He grimaced. "I'm sorry."

"I..."

"You're mine," Hawke said, very simply, and then winced as Anders glowed brighter. "Shit, sorry, Justice, poor choice of words." The glow dimmed. "I meant that _I love you_. You asked me if I'd be willing to stand by you. Well." He shifted their hands, so that he had just Anders's fingertips against his, like the beginning of a dance. "Would you be willing to go to some boring Hightown party with me, my love?"

"I don't know," Anders whispered, "is the host charming?"

"I heard that one time he punched a dragon _in the face_ ," Hawke said, grinning, and Anders smiled despite himself. Hawke reached out and touched a thumb to the corner of his mouth, cradling his chin gently. "There we go. Wash up, love. I'll be waiting for you upstairs."

Anders moved his face very slightly, just enough to brush his lips over the pad of Hawke's thumb. The blue glow extinguished itself, the room returning to shadow and gloom, but Anders hardly noticed, eyes only for the man before him. "Very well," he said, holding eye contact with Hawke. "I'll be up shortly. Try not to gorge yourself on cheese."

"I'm _Fereldan_ ," Hawke replied haughtily. "I don't gorge myself on cheese, I _guzzle_ that stuff."

"I've noticed," Anders said. He stepped back, swallowing, and Sandal popped the washbasin on the bench near the dog; the water smelled faintly of embrium, which Anders supposed would probably offend the gathered group above less than mud and rot and chokedamp.

"I'll see you there," Hawke said, and smiled at him. "C'mon Sandal, let's see how your old man is doing with those fiddly cocktail sausages. Orana, when Anders is finished up here, can you grab a bottle of the Royeux 8:34 Blessed and bring it up with you? Thank you."

The door closed behind them with a click, and Anders turned to the basin. There was a clean cloth floating on the surface, and with a sigh he reached up to unbuckle his feathered pauldrons. Orana turned her back to him, pink to the tips of her ears, holding his outfit so that he could take it from her when finished. 

The clothes were not _quite_ the current style, which was a good thing because the fashion amongst Kirkwall's greatest was swinging toward Orlesian huge collars and short trousers, and Anders felt his ankles were a thing best kept between himself and Hawke (and presumably Justice, although Justice had not yet indicated any particular interest in any body part of his at all much less his ankles in particular). They were clean, though, and familiar enough: a pair of black trousers, neatly-woven, and a long dark blue shirt over it, with a regularly sized collar and gold ring-shaped buckles. He kept his boots on. He'd rejected the shoes with ribbons the moment the cobbler brought them into the house, Hawke laughing hysterically at them until the cobbler brought out _his_ shoes.

Orana took his old clothing in a practiced bundle under one arm, and bless her heart, didn't even look revolted at the smell. She carried his pauldrons with two fingers hooked under the chain. He scruffed his fingers through his hair, the ends damp and curling, and breathed in and out for a second; the dog _cracked_ at his bone with a noise of deep satisfaction and he told himself he couldn't hide here in the wine cellar all night.

_Templars_ , though. In _his_ house. Because Hawke had had to invite them, for diplomacy's sake. Oh, Thrask wasn't so bad, Anders supposed, and he was sympathetic enough (and what an odd world, where any kindness at all toward prisoners had to be masked), but _Cullen_. 

There was a small _clink_ behind him as Orana withdrew a dusty wine bottle from one of the racks, and Anders breathed out deeply and pushed the door to the servant's quarters open.

Conversation immediately spiked as soon as he stepped out of the kitchens. The entrance hall was full of people in brightly-coloured clothes, standing in small groups and talking; the party had already been in swing for a while and some of them were gesturing a little _loosely_ with their wine glasses. Eyes followed him as he let the door swing closed behind him. Hawke's writing desk, normally a cluttered snarl of discarded armour, loose change, ignored and opened correspondence - and sometimes a stray smear of spider guts - had been cleaned and polished, refreshments a far cry from the Hanged Man's comfortingly familiar order of miscellaneous meat stew and sawdust bread arranged there for the taking. A half-empty rack of wine glasses sat on the other side of the room, with four or five opened bottles next to them, all presumably decent vintages. The curtains were drawn, the fire burning, all the lights lit, and the carpet had been scrubbed fresh. Even the mabari-chewed pieces of furniture had been carefully removed from sight. 

Aveline was standing near the wine glasses, and if Anders didn't know better he would have said she was _skulking_ , as if a woman over six foot tall with flaming red hair dressed in full plate could skulk. She caught his eye and nodded to him slowly. Anders tried to remember what one did at parties like this. Did you start with those you knew, hoping they would introduce you to their acquaintances, who would then introduce you to _their_ acquaintances until you knew everybody? Or did you just pick a cluster and strike up conversation? It had been a long time since Vigil's Keep, the last party he'd attended.

Either way, it was highly unlikely that Aveline would be his best choice for mingling. Her entire posture screamed her discomfort out to the rest of the room; it was no mystery why she was standing alone. _I was good at this once,_ Anders told himself, and moved away from the door, feeling people's eyes upon him as he went looking for Hawke.

Varric was upstairs on the landing, in the midst of an improbable and highly unlikely story about Hawke and a trek through Sundermount. Anders tried not to look too relieved to see him. He didn't want people thinking he was pathetic. "- Whoosh, frozen solid, just like that! And our friend, the escaped slave, goes running right at this thing and _crack_ , bits of frozen - shit, I don't know. Blondie! What _was_ that thing?"

"Dalish magic," Anders said, allowing himself to approach. "You'd have to ask the Dalish."

Varric shivered. "Maybe not any time soon. Where have you been? Hawke was asking about you."

"When?"

"About five minutes ago, Serah," said one of Varric's companions, a neatly-groomed dark haired man in the most ridiculous lacey outfit Anders had ever seen. Even his breeches had ribbons. "I don't know where he is now."

"Saw him get cornered by the red-haired templar," Varric said. "Don't look at me like that, Blondie, he's not going to get dragged off at his own party."

"He's the Champion!" One of the ladies seemed highly put out. Anders looked at her, startled by the intensity of her voice. "If Meredith thinks - "

"Blondie," Varric said, rather hastily, "let me introduce you..."

His companions - minor noblemen, mostly, although there were a few of Varric's fellow merchants - human, rather than dwarven - seemed most intrigued by him. "I was there, in the throne room, the day of the battle," one of the men said. "I remember you. Bloody amazing healing, never seen anything like it. You saved the Champion's life! You're his, uh, his, um..." he glanced around the circle, his eyes desperately looking for some help. Varric hid his smirk behind his sleeve and made no move to step in. Anders, who wasn't actually sure what exactly his technical title was, hesitated.

" _Consort_ ," said one of the women, with a sort of drunken finality in her voice, and Anders stared at her, his stomach gurgling suddenly. "That's what it is, isn't it? Champions get consorts. Like _royalty_."

"We don't have royalty in Kirkwall," said another man with the largest nose Anders had ever seen, "We have a Viscount. We're not bloody Fereldans."

"We don't have a bloody Viscount in Kirkwall either right now," snapped one of the merchants, with a thick Fereldan accent. "We have a _Knight-Commander_."

"Temporarily," said the lady who had protested to the idea of Hawke being carted off by Thrask. There was a surprisingly savage bite to her voice when she added, " _Apparently_."

"The city is recovering nicely from the invasion," said the Fereldan merchant. "Word's gotten out about our mage Champion, of course. Lots of people are very interested in us. Not necessarily a good thing, I suppose. He's a lifelong apostate, they say, never known the order of the Circle. Seems dangerous to me." 

Anders stared. "He _bled_ for you." It was the only thing he could think of that wouldn't send these people running, screaming, out of the doors. Three feet of Qunari steel sticking out of his back, blood pouring thick and gelatinous over the floor, and all these people cared about was his _magic_. Of course. Hawke was a hundred times the hero these people deserved.

"He saved our lives, Serah," said the angry woman. Anders made a note of her face, if not her name. "Without him, apostate or not, we would have been slaughtered wholesale by the Qunari. By the time the rest of the Free Marches got off their arses and sent help, it would have been too late. He's been tireless in defence of this city ever since. His apostasy surely needn't preclude him from being a good man."

"Well, quite," the merchant said quickly. "It just feels _risky_. It..." He glanced at Anders. "You're a mage too, aren't you?"

Suddenly they were all staring at him. Varric winced, a barely perceptible gesture, but Anders looked around the circle and nodded. "I -"

"Blondie was a Grey Warden," Varric said, "But once he helped drive the last of the Darkspawn out of Amaranthine he thought his healing would be more useful elsewhere. So he came here and opened up a clinic in the _sewers_. It's terribly noble, I'm hoping to get a three-book series out of it."

A red-haired woman on the other side of the gathering, who had remained silent thus far, jerked her head up. " _You're_ the Darktown healer?"

Anders opened and closed his mouth, settling for a careful, "Yes?" and the woman smiled. There had been a general loosening in the atmosphere after Varric had said the words Grey Warden. _Leashed by the Templars or by the Wardens. As long as people think you have a keeper, they're a lot less worried,_ Anders thought, with venom. 

"I've heard of you. I've never needed to use your services, but I've heard of you. You've been quite a force for the people of Darktown, you know."

"I didn't expect rumours of me to have reached this far... up," Anders said, carefully. "It was a surprise to make the Champion's acquaintance."

"His brother's a Warden too, isn't he? Is that how you met? I always thought the Wardens were for life, haha!"

"They usually are," said a new voice behind Anders, and as one the group glanced over at the new arrival before blanching.

"I'm going to get a drink," said the Fereldan merchant hastily, and was met with a chorus of _me too_ s. "Ser," and he bowed hastily to the new arrival, who stepped carefully around Anders with his plate armour creaking. The Knight-Captain's ceremonial armour had been polished to a high glossy shine, and he wore his sword sheathed in a brand new scabbard, the leather oiled and glistening, presumably not unlike one of Isabela's sailors. 

Anders, who had left his staff in the cellar, felt Justice jerk suddenly to attention; he tightened his hands into fists and snapped his gaze away from Cullen. _Not now!_

_Now!_ Justice howled, and then a familiar strong arm was thrown across his shoulders, a familiar voice cheerful in his ear: "There you are! I was looking for you. Have you _seen_ the cheese? I imported it all the way from Ferelden, that's _authentic Fereldan dog hair_ dusted over the rind!"

Cullen's mouth pulled into a half-smile. "There are many things I miss about Fereldan," he said, "The dog hair in the food would probably not be one of them, Champion."

"We've been making do with my mabari," Hawke said mournfully, giving Anders's shoulders a reassuring squeeze. "Bodahn and Sandal have been holding him upside down over the food and shaking him out. It's just not the _same_." He kissed Anders on the temple, little more than a brush of beard and lips.

"Humans," Varric said, shaking his head.

"Ah," Hawke said, "And Varric too. Sorry, didn't see you over the banister. Varric, Varric, _Varric_. I've heard some very interesting rumours about myself today - tell me, what do I do when I'm not freeing slaves, rescuing stuck kittens and escorting old ladies across the street? This fictional Champion seems like such an upstanding man, it's giving me quite a complex."

"Hawke," Varric said, with a snort, "You've already got _several_ complexes. Now I know you don't like having your good deeds circulated, but if I didn't take time out of my surprisingly busy life to spread stories about you and stuck kittens, I feel like Kirkwall would realise the bitter truth about their Champion, which is this: you're actually pretty normal."

Garrett gasped. "You take that back!"

"Besides," Varric continued, grinning, "Blondie here can verify that you do get involved in a lot of _pointless shit_. Now, I've always admired a touch of interfering busybody in my heroes, but can _you_ explain how else you ended up in the midst of a bunch of Qunari?"

Hawke sniffed and rubbed his nose on his own bicep, his arm still across Anders's shoulders; the move brushed his beard over the shell of Anders's ear and he jerked his head away, wrinkling his nose. "Not entirely sure of that myself," he said. "It's probably my exceptional sense of dramatic timing. Have I mentioned it before? I feel it needs to be mentioned. Besides, wasn't just me, you were there, too! And Anders. And you, obviously, Captain. Enjoying the party? Flora Harimann seems to like you. Nice girl. Bit of a demon problem, but I'm sure if you dust the house off it'll come out alright."

It was the wrong thing to say, Anders knew that immediately. Cullen's back straightened and his voice was all politeness and formality as he said, with just a hint of sharpness, "I would hardly call maleficar a 'bit of a problem' in this city, Champion."

"Well, obviously," Hawke said, fumbling a bit, and smiled very charmingly. "More of a problem lately, I hear. Sorry to hear about your recent losses. An abomination, in the sewers? Desperation makes madmen of us all. Even the women."

"Not dwarves," Varric said. "We're already there."

Hawke snorted. "If only more dwarves recognised the correlation between acts of stupidity and beards."

"I'm glad you've come to this realisation about yourself, Hawke. Some might say it was overdue, but I say it's a good thing you're here at all. Shame it took duelling an Arishok to do it."

"Anders likes the beard," Hawke said, grinning. Cullen's eyes flicked to him and away, as always, refusing to acknowledge him, and Anders felt abruptly ten years older, aching and worn down. He was so tired of this, and so tired of caring about it all. Sometimes it felt like it'd be easier just to stop. Sometimes it felt like it'd be easier to explode, he was so full of thoughts and feelings. 

"Are you still enjoying the Gallows more than Kinloch, Captain?" he said, and felt Hawke tensing next to him. He didn't care. "I imagine it must be nice to have a commander more in line with your thoughts than Gregoir."

"Knight-Commander Gregoir was a good man," Cullen said, still not looking at Anders. Instead, he addressed Hawke, who was gazing back at him steadily, "And Knight-Commander Meredith is a devoted woman. It has been a trying time, but I have learned a great deal from her."

"I'm sure," Anders said, and then, because he was heartsick and so fucking tired, he said, "Next time the Circle breaks out into abominations you'll have no trouble slaughtering everyone inside."

"Blondie," Varric hissed, as Cullen finally made eye contact with him. Anders held it defiantly, felt Hawke's tension.

"Gregoir's decision to be lenient after the fact may have had little direct consequence," he said, "But it came at terrible cost. I have done my share of soul-searching on the fall of Kinloch Hold and what we could have done to prevent it. Without the Order, the demons would have - "

"Without the _order_? You shut the door and locked it, and stood there doing _nothing_ ," Anders snapped. Varric nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. "From what I hear, two Grey Wardens, a senior enchanter and a _dog_ climbed the tower and restored peace in your place. A _dog_!"

"Maybe the Order should consider recruiting Mabari," Hawke mused idly, looking up at the ceiling. "It might solve all those, you know, _consent_ issues that seem to keep cropping up. Also less time spent pulling recruits out of the Rose by their ears. Or other parts, I hear, if you catch my drift." He nudged Varric, as if expecting a snigger; Varric shook his head and folded his arms over his chest, looking as though he'd rather be anywhere else.

Cullen was looking at Anders now like he was something unpleasant on the sole of his boot. "There were _literal demons_ ," he said, angry, tense. "The Rite should have been performed. The fall of an entire Circle to demons remains one of the reasons it was implemented. That events worked out as well as they did was pure luck." He paused. "You were not there. You did not see what it was like."

"Oh look, I see an unsupervised wheel of cheese. Hawke, do you and Blondie maybe want to -"

"I wasn't there," Anders said, "But the Commander was, and -"

"The Commander?" Cullen cocked his head, and then realisation set in. "The Hero of Ferelden. Yes, I remember. She came in after the worse was over, after the demons had killed almost everybody. Do not misunderstand, mage, I am glad that some mages were saved, but she did not see what _happened_ any more than you did."

Anders opened his mouth, but Hawke got there first. "Why did the Ferelden Circle fall to demons in the first place?"

The question had been said in a mild tone of voice, and his posture seemed deceptively relaxed, but Anders could feel how tightly Hawke was holding onto his shoulder. His arm was a comfortingly heavy weight against the back of Anders's neck. "I mean, one or two demons in a Circle, that's just your average power-hungry madman. But a bunch at once?"

"A rogue Libertarian," Cullen said reluctantly. "A fellow Senior Enchanter claimed that he had been put up to it by Loghain after the battle of Ostagar, but given that Senior Enchanter's involvement with the Grey Wardens, and Loghain's attitude toward them, that may or may not have been true. Apparently there had been a group of covert blood mages, hiding within the ranks of the Libertarians."

Hawke nodded as though this made sense, and then turned to Anders and said, "What's a Libertarian?"

"A fraternity," Anders said. "Most Circles have them. Not the Gallows, though. Meredith had them all beaten into Loyalists."

"The Knight-Commander seeks to avoid the nightmare at Kinloch happening here," Cullen said sharply. "You cannot deny that there seem to be a lot of blood mages in this blasted city."

"Perhaps you should pre-emptively clear out the Gallows, and then hack your way down," Anders snapped. 

"Oh look, Aveline's here," said Varric, and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs.

Cullen looked at Anders for a long time, very thoughtfully. Hawke let his hand ghost down from Anders's shoulder, his fingertips following the line of Anders's arm, and took a long, deep drink from his wine glass. "We are not your _enemies_ ," Cullen said, very quietly. "We are here to protect you. Do you imagine that, if we templars vanished tomorrow, the mages would scatter and live out happy, peaceful lives? You were a Grey Warden. Hawke here is the Champion. Most mages cannot claim anything like that to protect them when the villagers come for them." He sighed. "Yes, I think mages should have supervision and structure, to keep them from harming themselves. For the safety of others. But I don't think they're safe themselves, either. That is what the templar order is." He hesitated, and said, almost softly, "That is what it should be."

"It's not," Anders said, with less warmth in his voice than in all the far south, and Cullen glared at him. Hawke made absolutely no move to intervene, his tacit silence giving Anders all the support he needed. Justice was rising again, a feeling low in the case of his stomach; his pulse in his wrists fluttered, and he felt his teeth gritting. The Knight-Captain narrowed his eyes and shifted his weight. _He senses something of Justice?_

"Cullen -" Hawke began to say, at which point there came the ungodly sound of quite a lot of glass _shattering_ , and all of them glanced as one over the bannister. The stacked collection of wine glasses were in pieces over the floor; Aveline was scraping some of the glittering shards into a rough pile with the side of an armoured boot, scowling. Varric, standing next to the table, winched in an elbow and glanced around at the staring guests, shrugging.

"Shit," he said. He glanced up at the three of them, pointedly. "Sorry about your glasses, Hawke."

Hawke set his hands on the railing, leaning over to grin down at Varric crookedly, raising his voice with the ease of a born extrovert. "Those were from _Antiva_."

"There's your problem, then," Varric said. He scratched the side of his nose. "Antivan wine glasses? Probably some kind of elaborate assassination attempt. Foiled by my elbow. Hmm."

Cullen cleared his throat. "Let me not keep you from your duties as a host, Champion," he said. He glanced at Anders once, briefly, and then descended the staircase.

"I'm sorry," Anders said, once Cullen had gone. In the corner of his eye he saw Hawke looking at him, but chose instead to keep on watching the gathering, the glint of plate marking the templars present. "I just... I couldn't stay quiet."

"Justice?" Hawke's voice was gentle.

"Maybe."

"Good." Now Anders did turn his head, unable to keep a flicker of surprise from his face; Hawke covered his hand on the railing with one of his own. "You've been - quiet for a while. Not writing as much. Or going out on... errands. I was worried."

"We've lost, Hawke," Anders said. "What is there to be loud about anymore? The Und - we're all gone. They smashed it to pieces. Bancroft is lying low and Selby's gone, and nobody will do anything about it, there's nobody _left_. We're not losing. We already _lost_." He pulled his hand free, scrubbing both palms over his face; Hawke's ring was warm and sleek against his cheek. "Selby fled the city by darkness, and there are templars in our _home_. I don't know what to do next, who to write to, what good it will do." He glanced at Hawke, who was watching him intently. "I feel - I feel like I'm drowning," he said, and his eyes were stinging, and he _wasn't going to cry because of this_. They'd broken him once, and he'd put himself together again, piece by piece, and gotten free. He'd never let it happen again.

"Anders," Hawke said, reaching for him, but Anders jerked away. 

"I need to clear my head," he said. "I'm going to the garden, love. You... stay here, be a host. Charm people. Do what you do."

Hawke caught his hand as he moved to walk away, but rather than pulling Anders toward him, drew closer instead. "I love you," he said, in a low voice. "Anders, we will fight this. Hold onto that. We -" he glanced around, and then moved closer, so his lips almost touched the shell of Anders's ear - "We got rid of Alrik. We can do this."

"Hawke, this is no time for sweet nothings - the _glass_ ," Aveline shouted from below, exasperated. 

"Coming, Captain," Hawke said, with a bright and glossy grin, bounding down the steps two at a time, and Anders put his lips together and thought _Oh._


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke breaks a five-year-record in five minutes flat.

The estate's garden was little more than a small square of grass and some climbing frames, only a fraction bigger than their bedroom, but Leandra had loved it. Since the study overlooked it on one side, and the servant's quarters on the other, Anders supposed the ancient Tevinter architect responsible for the dull boxy layout had thought it would become a site of beauty, to inspire the master from the study and perhaps to take the slaves' minds off their miserable existence. 

It was the same ridiculous line of thought that had led Irving, once upon a time, to try to buy Anders's good behaviour by allowing him outside for exercises.

Neither Hawke nor Anders had ever had much interest in the scrap of greenery, but Leandra had, and the rhododendrons she had planted were still flourishing. Orana had shyly taken over another bed to plant roses. With his mother's passing, Hawke had been more than happy to pass responsibility for the garden over, and Orana maintained it beautifully with the help of a once-weekly visit from an elvhen gardener. It and her lute were the first signs of real selfish desires she had displayed thus far, and Hawke, ever the bleeding heart, indulged her in both.

The climbing frames were barely visible beneath the flowering plants, tubs and pots strewn around the walls, and the rhododendrons were in bloom, filling the air with a faint hint of their perfume. It smelled better than the house, the cigar smoke and the sweat and the armour polish. The templars, and their scorched-earth scent; the lyrium, obvious to any mage in their breath, and to which they themselves seemed unaware.

It was amidst one such sheltered vantage point that Anders found himself, surrounded by Witch's Bloom spreading curious fingers along painstakingly carved wooden trellises and hidden from view of the servant's quarter entrance. The sun had set a long time ago, and the garden was wreathed in a queer half-light, cast from the windows of the Hawke estate as the party continued inside. Separated by only a few panes of glass, music played and people danced, and Anders gathered his isolation around him like a cloak, pinning his loneliness close to his heart, and felt nothing but relief.

A pair of drunken lovers - including the big-nosed noble - had almost fallen on him at one point, seeking a similar hiding spot of their own, but he had smiled at them sharply and they had stumbled off elsewhere. He didn't know where. He didn't care. He'd stripped everything out of the estate that shouldn't be there, burned all of the drafts of his essays and scrappy notes, lists of templar patrol routes and maps of the sewers. Hawke hadn't been there, but he'd caught the man later on pulling books off the shelves in the library, opening them curiously and putting them back on the shelves, searching in vain for hand-written pages of a manifesto now just ash in the fireplace.

_We got rid of Alrik_ , Hawke had said, but Alrik was only part of the problem. Nothing had changed. Nothing had stopped. There were templars in his home, and Anders felt like he was sliding over some dangerous precipice, clawing fruitlessly at the ground to stop his fall.

He lost track of time briefly, sitting on his secluded garden bench. The sky was a beautiful indigo; Hightown was far enough above the choke-damp and the harbour mists and Lowtown foundries and their dense smog that you could still see the stars from here, small unwavering silvery lights scattered loosely right above him. Unbidden he thought of Sigrun, eyes like saucers as she turned her head every which way to see them, still spattered with broodmother blood and nursing a sore ankle from their fight to escape the breeding pit in the hills.

_Wow,_ she'd breathed, neck bent backward at an angle that Anders had winced to see. _It's like cave moss, but prettier! And they're out - every night, you said? Anybody can see them?_

_Well,_ Anders had drawled, _Not those of us locked up in a tower somewhere. But hey, we can always make our own, if there's no templars to see!_

She'd demanded proof, and he'd conjured mage-light for her, grinning at her awed reaction. The Chantry had never set its hooks in Orzammar, never poisoned the minds of its citizens; to Sigrun he'd been a healer, a source of amusement, a light - literally - in the dark. Not an object.

Not a thing to be feared.

When the door to the estate opened, letting in a brief tinkle of music and a wisp of perfume, he ignored it; it was only at the clank of plate mail that he glanced over sharply, instantly on alert - but it was just Aveline. She looked frustrated, her body language stiff and tense as she strode out into the garden, one hand balled in a fist and the other on the door handle, pulling it closed behind her; she didn't seem to have seen him, and he debated the wisdom of keeping quiet briefly before she spoke. "Hawke, where did you go? _Hawke_?"

Anders cleared his throat, watching as she whirled to face him, a lobstered steel gauntlet going to the hilt of her sword instinctively before she realised who it was. "He hasn't come this way, Captain."

"I wondered where you'd got off to," she said. She sighed. "I should be getting home, but I can't find Hawke to make my goodbyes. It's not _polite_ to leave without bidding your host farewell. If I didn't know better, I'd say he was doing this deliberately."

"It's not always about you, Captain," Anders said, but without his usual scorn. He shifted, resting his elbows on his knees, and bent forward; his hands drew together, unable to keep himself from toying with that silver ring. "He's probably out front, saying goodbye to someone else. It's, what, eleven bells, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Aveline said warily. She walked toward him; Anders watched her boots approach, thought about telling her to get off the grass before she crushed it, and decided he didn't have enough energy left within him to be concerned. Hawke had arranged her wedding here next month. It'd be her own fault if the garden she got married in ended up ruined. "I'm a little surprised you're not back in there, starting a ruckus with the members of the Order. I'd've thought you'd have sense enough to leave the Knight-Captain alone, but apparently not."

Anders snorted disdainfully. "You don't know me well enough to know what I'll do. I'm happy to keep it that way, Captain. You're Hawke's friend, for whatever reason - "

"Hawke is a _good man_ ," Aveline snapped. "The nobles of the city love him, as do the less fortunate." She sighed. "Anders, I didn't actually come here to fight with you, you know. If you weren't so _prickly_ \- "

"Prickly?" Anders glanced at her. "Well. That makes a change from your usual endearments, Captain. What will I do without you to call me 'crazy' or 'mad', 'dangerous', 'volatile' - "

Aveline squared her jaw. "Oh, for - talking to you is like an uphill battle. Hawke loves you. For his sake, a little civility wouldn't go amiss." 

"Still trying to warn me off, Captain? Does Donnic know your heart belongs to Kirkwall's Champion?" He was being cruel, and he knew it. He felt tired, and angry, and right now the prospect of hurting something the way he had been hurt seemed perfect. Still, he could picture Hawke's reaction, if he were here to overhear them; and it was this, more than the flash of contempt in her eyes, that made him break his gaze with a weary sigh. Let her win this round. "Look, I'll let Hawke know you said goodbye. You can go home. Social obligation fulfilled, parties attended, etcetera, etcetera. I'm sure I'll see you soon, on some task or another of Hawke's, if not your forthcoming wedding."

"Why are you hiding in the garden?"

Anders glared at her. "What does it matter?"

"You're arguing with Knight-Captain Cullen one moment, skulking around in the garden the next. Why?" She was eyeing him suspciously. "Are you planning something?"

Anders rolled his eyes. "Shockingly, I don't spend all my time plotting to make your life complicated, Captain. I just wanted to be on my own." He was rolling the ring between index and thumb, speed increasing, and sighed. "There's no point arguing with templars about mage suffering. They don't want to listen."

"Not all templars are cruel monsters, despite your love of unfair oversimplifications," Aveline said, sharply. She folded her arms over her chest; she still carried her former husband's shield, the Order's symbol worn proudly on her back. Anders barely twitched at her defending them anymore. "Anders. The _old_ you would have argued with them about it regardless. You've changed."

"Haven't we all?"

Aveline snorted. "I would have expected you to be in there, boring the entire gathering away with that manifesto of yours - yes, I know it's yours, we've been pulling copies out of shrubs and the gutters of Hightown for months, and I recognise your handwriting. We haven't seen it for a while, you know."

"The shrubs are only marginally more resistant to news about mage oppression than the people of this city," Anders said, tucking one hand in the other. "I've tried for five years to make people listen. They won't. What is there to discuss?"

She shifted her weight and sighed heavily. "I... that time I came to your clinic. I didn't approve of you and Hawke, I thought you would put him in danger. Is this - this slowing down because of him? Is this quietness to protect Hawke? If so... thank you."

"' _Thank you_ '?"

"Yes." Her voice was calm. "Hawke has enough to worry about without you and your... friend doing your level best to bring the Order down on yourselves. He's trying to be a symbol of responsible magecraft, and you..."

Anders stared at her. "'Responsible _magecraft_?' He's running himself bloody ragged for this city, and some of them still think he ought to be in the Gallows. He nearly _died_ for them."

"And you starting trouble with the Knight-Captain at a party is helping him?" Aveline crooked an eyebrow. 

He could feel a dull throb beginning just behind his right eye, the warning sign of a tension headache; he reached up and healed it with a moment's thought, a flicker-flash of blue. "It's my home, Captain," he said, quietly. "I shouldn't have to buy Hawke's freedom with my good behaviour. That you can't see what's so awful about it speaks _volumes._." He glanced up at her, weary and resentful. "Thank you for coming, Captain. Go home to your fiance. "

Aveline hesitated, and began to turn away; she paused at the last moment, her back to him, and said, "Life isn't fair, Anders. Rules, the law - these things were put in place to protect us. Hawke is being an example for mages everywhere; perhaps you'd accomplish more by emulating him."

"Goodnight, Captain," Anders said, disinterested.

There were goosebumps on his arms, even under his shirt; he folded his arms over his chest to warm them. Aveline's armour clanked as she walked away, and when she opened the door to the house, the hubbub within seemed to have dimmed; they were bleeding guests. Possibly silverware too, if Garrett was caught up and not seeing people out. Cynicism had always been one of his strongest qualities. 

Abruptly he felt a swirl of anger, the emotion so sudden and strong he knew it had come from Justice; but there were no templars around in the immediate area, and he had no idea what could have set the spirit off this time. It was too delayed a reaction to have come from Aveline's words, and there were fine blue cracks spreading over the fleshy heel of his thumbs, spidering over his palms. _Not now,_ Anders thought, and pictured kittens to try and combat the anger; the kittens turned into Garrett, snoring into his pillow with the blanket just barely covering the swell of his arse. The anger leeched away, replaced with a vague sense of discomfort and unease, but the blue cracks died away, so Anders counted it as a victory.

Justice had been pushing at him a lot lately, growing more forceful and more restless, and Anders knew it had something to do with the collapse of the Underground, with the burnt manifestos. The spirit probably had access to his memories along with everything else, probably worried that Anders was preparing to run away, or hiding himself in Hawke, the way a much younger Anders had hidden in Karl. Anders supposed he couldn't blame Justice. He had a record of this sort of thing.

The creeping feeling in his stomach settled finally, lapsing from anger to something else, but Anders didn't recognise this new feeling, couldn't place it. He scrubbed his hands over his face, feeling the scratch of his own stubble, the lines sneaking out from the edges of his eyes, and sighed. "I miss you, you know," he said, into his palms. "It was easier when we could talk to each other."

His heart fluttered uncomfortably, but that was all the response he got. Figured. 

There were no easy answers, not for this.

* * *

By the time Anders came back inside -after the big-nosed noble had tripped over him yet again, too wrapped up in his scantily-clad companion - the party appeared to have wound down and then out. Pausing to take one of the last few remaining intact morsels from a tray of depleted, half-gnawed high society finger-food, he headed to the wine cellar to call Dog back upstairs, and the mabari accompanied him from the gloom and straight into chaos; the foyer was a mess, the carpet stained by spilled wine and pipe-ash, crumbs of food scattered everywhere, and Anders glanced around it for all of two minutes before deciding that whilst cleanliness was a virtue in a healer, this particular wreck could be left until morning. 

Dog made a beeline directly for the table with the refreshments, hoisting himself up on his hind legs and helping himself to what remained of the cheese and the sausages. Anders followed him , pulling the cocktail sticks out so he'd have less work to do. He felt impossibly fragile, like blown glass - hollow, and heartsick. Aveline's words had struck him harder than he'd thought, coming so soon on the heels of Selby's flight and the wretched mess with Elthina.

Did she even know? Did she know about Selby? The templars would have roped the city guard into her pursuit the way they did for any mage-sympathizer these days. Did Aveline care? Did she sit across the table at the Hanged Man and toast Hawke's accomplishments, and then go to work the next day and sign off on arrest warrant after arrest warrant, knowing full well what awaited the poor bastards her men collared in the Gallows?

Everything _ached_. The Underground had collapsed, and with it seemed to have gone a great deal of his energy. His mood was bleak, and getting bleaker as the Templars closed in behind him, effortlessly undoing what little he had accomplished. He wished he knew where to turn to from here. He wished he had the energy or the good spirit to puzzle it out. Instead, he had only Hawke, and an empty desperation that made his very bones ache.

The library door clicked open as Anders pulled the last cocktail stick free and Hawke emerged, one hand clamped around the upper arm of a naked man, a pile of clothing bunched up in his other fist. Anders nibbled at one of the small pastry rolls, lifting his eyebrows as he recognised the big-nosed man; the woman stumbling along after him, spilling out of her dress, was not the gentleman he'd been embracing when he'd tripped over Anders in the garden. "Marvellous party, Champion," he was saying, swaying drunkenly, and reached out to pat Hawke's chest. "You keep a fucking fantastic wine cellar, you know, all that -" he belched as Hawke opened the door - "Tevinter shit! Amazing. Next time?"

"Of course," Hawke said, gently shoving him out of the door. "Ser, your clothing, you'll need this."

"Hah! Shows what _you_ know," Big-nose slurred, leaning heavily against the door frame. The woman carefully squeezed out next to him. "Fantastic party. I'm having one day after tomorrow, you know. Bring your blond friend, eh? The human, not the dwarf. Well, not unless you're into that sort of thing. You hear all sorts about the Wardens," and he laughed at his own joke; Hawke smiled, nodded, and firmly closed the door.

"Well," Anders said, "It's nice to know our guests had a good time."

Hawke turned around; there was concern in his eyes and Anders hated it immediately. He stepped back when Hawke approached, and saw the brief bloom of hurt in the lines around Hawke's mouth. It was easier not to look at that. He gave the remains of the pastry to the dog, who accepted it with surprising tenderness. "Anders," Hawke said.

"Hawke."

Garrett sighed. Out of the corner of his eye Anders watched him pass a hand briefly over his face, dragging his fingers through his beard. "Well, some of them had a better time than others, at least. You missed the woman dancing on the table, Varric had to talk her down before she broke her neck. Did I tell you about Keran? Poor kid. Poor, poor kid. You'd think the lyrium would make alcohol look like a breeze, but no; half a bottle and he's telling Aveline she's got beautiful eyes."

Anders laughed shakily, relieved. "Well, templars don't get to go to nice parties. Too busy glaring at mages."

"Mmm," Hawke said, and they were right back to the awkward silence.

"I don't want to talk about it," Anders said, because he'd never liked silence, never, not even before. "Stop looking at me like that."

"You're staring at the dog, how do you know what I'm looking at you like? Is he telling tales on me again?" Hawke was wearing indoor boots, sans ribbon, but they crunched on the party detritus as he approached; his palm settled on Anders's elbow, his thumb stroking gently over the thin skin on the inside. Anders thought he could feel Hawke's pulse there; or maybe it was his own, still too fast. Hawke felt too warm, suddenly, too close and yet not close enough. "Anders - "

"No." Anders didn't even know what he was going to do until he was doing it; he swung around, fisting one hand in the bright silk of Hawke's lapel, and leaned down to kiss him. His stubble scraped over Hawke's beard; Hawke's mouth was soft and lax in surprise under his lips and he licked his way in furiously, his other hand settling on Hawke's hip, holding onto him tightly. Hawke made a small noise into his mouth; and then he was kissing back, his mouth warm and wet and willing, sloppy under Anders's own.

Anders pushed at him, relieved when Hawke let him, walking them backward until they were pressed up against the wall by the door, Hawke's chest solid and strong under his palm; he pressed himself up against Garrett, his tongue slowly and rhythmically thrusting into Hawke's mouth, mimicry of what could follow; he could feel Hawke growing slowly hard against his thigh. He smelled like his cologne and cigar smoke, tasted like wine and salt, and he was a real thing, tangible and pliant under Anders's hands, letting Anders touch him. When he broke the kiss, Garrett made a small noise, pure frustration.

"I'm not done with you, love," Anders murmured, and then he was dropping to his knees, fingers dragging down Hawke's body, trailing the line of muscle and the shape of bone. He rubbed his cheek against the tent of Hawke's erection, half-hard but getting there despite the wine and the late hour. He felt a little intoxicated himself, despite that he'd drunk nothing but water all night, hazy with the pleasure he got from bringing Hawke to this; he leaned up and began unlacing Hawke's breeches one-handed, placed the other on Hawke's stomach as he rubbed his cheek over his crotch again just to feel the way the muscles there jumped. One of Garrett's hands settled, rough-palmed, on the back of his head, and he allowed himself to smile. 

"Maker," Garrett said, a low hiss, and there came a _thud_ as he banged his head back against the wall. "I - Anders -"

Anders shoved his trousers down to his knees, sweeping one of his hands over Garrett's thigh, pale from lack of sun and richly populated with dark, musky hair. There was a curving scar slicing from the front through to the inside, and he dipped his head and set his tongue to it, tracing the ribbon of white flesh with desperate gratitude; it had nicked the big pulsing artery running through the leg and Hawke had bled like a stuck pig, turning gradually whiter under the sun as Anders desperately worked to fix the damage. He couldn't remember exactly who had given it to him anymore. Tal-Vashoth, maybe. Garrett hitched in his breath as Anders followed it all the way to the end point, his cheek brushing Hawke's smalls; he could feel the heat there, and the scent of Hawke's arousal as always sent warmth coiling through him lazily. He'd always thought it smelled a little like the sea, although this was an observation he'd been careful to keep to himself.

There was a brief tug on his hair as Hawke pulled free the leather thong holding it out of his face, and then another as Hawke carded his fingers through it, coaxing it to hang free around his jaw; Anders rested his cheek against Garrett's thigh and nuzzled his nose into the crease between his leg and his groin, feeling Hawke's cock stiffening against him; Hawke groaned, low and desperate, his head banging back into the wall, and Anders slid both hands onto his thighs as he leaned forward and mouthed damply at the silk, following the thick line of Hawke's cock up until he found the head. Hawke panted, thighs falling apart, and said, in a heavy voice, " _Maker_ -"

"Just Anders," Anders said, running his hands soothingly up and down Hawke's thighs. He pushed himself up, planting a kiss to Hawke's naval, and began to slip down again chin-first, letting his stubble scrape over the soft skin of Garrett's belly; down, to the waistband of his smalls, which he caught in his teeth, and further, Hawke hissing under his breath, his free hand clamped over his mouth and his brown eyes vivid and sharp -

A door banged, and Hawke bucked under him in surprise; Anders leaned back, wary, to see Bodahn stopped just outside the servant's entrance, Sandal beside him; Anders released Hawke's waistband very slowly and Bodahn clapped a hand over his eyes. Sandal stuck his forefinger in his mouth to the second joint, staring at them with innocent curiosity. Hawke was completely stiff under him, in more ways than the one Anders liked.

For a moment they were all frozen like that, a tableaux of awkwardness; and then Bodahn said, rather squeakily, "Beg pardon, Messeres, I thought I'd begin the clean-up - apologies, Messeres, if I had known, I'd..."

"Quite alright, Bodahn," Hawke said, very desperately and very loudly, "No need to do that right now, of course, it can wait until tomorrow - very late, of course, you should turn in, get some sleep - been very helpful all evening, of course -"

"En _chant_ ment," said Sandal, still staring vacantly at Anders, who smiled at him; Bodahn hastily reached out, fumbling blindly with a hand still hiding his eyes, until he managed to get an arm across his son's shoulders.

"In the morning, Messeres," Bodahn said, rather pitifully, and turned, tugging at Sandal's shoulder when the younger dwarf would have been quite happy to remain there. The door closed behind them and Hawke groaned, reaching up to rub roughly at his face.

"Five years," he groaned, "I went _five years_ without giving my employees a glimpse of anything inappropriate."

"Then it was overdue," Anders said primly.

Hawke cleared his throat; he had turned a very fetching shade of red. "Not that I don't - that is to say, I'm quite - oh, blast it. Shall we head upstairs and finish up, love?"

_Love_. For the first time in months Anders found himself thinking of those battered little romance novels, the ones traded amongst the Circle apprentices; the ones with creases in the spines, so that they opened straight away to the smutty bits, and some questionable stains in the corners. Some had been imported by apprentices lucky enough to have family who had enough, who _cared_ enough to pay the steep bribes necessary to smuggle in books in their care packages; others, Anders included, had simply stolen them from the Senior Enchanters. Karl had been a dab hand with a lock-breaking spell, and could sniff out a torrid romance novel from a hundred paces.

He'd never said the words, though. Never had a chance. Neither had Anders. They'd thought them, felt them, but never said them; and now Anders could say them as he pleased, and they weren't enough to make it all alright.

Anders closed his eyes and touched his forehead to the soft skin of Hawke's stomach, felt Hawke's hand come to settle in his hair. He breathed in deeply of Hawke himself, the man's musky odor, masked, unsuccessfully, behind imported Orlesian cologne. He might dress himself up for his party, might wear the skin of a politician, a hero (Champion), but underneath it all, he was still... Hawke. No matter what Anders was - friend, lover, _consort_ , weight around his neck... they had this.

_Please - don't take him like you took -_ , Anders thought, and then hitched in a quick little gasp, cutting the thought back. Swallowing back the words before he even finished thinking them, pushing it all back into the black place.

He felt a throb of reassurance not his own - or maybe it was, Anders wasn't even sure. Things were getting more and more muddled between them. Pushing the old hurt back seemed to make it... clearer. He was himself, and Justice was Justice. They were two separate beings, and the pain couldn't touch either of them if they didn't let it. It was easier to breathe, when you didn't think. When you didn't focus. When you didn't let it overwhelm you.

"Anders?" Hawke said, very gently. His fingers were thick and strong, stroking softly through Anders's hair. For a man who wielded such powerful and dangerous magic - who had fought off an Arishok with fire and lightning and ice, who could rip the very world asunder - his fingertips were tender against Anders's scalp, his touch feather-light, like Anders was something -

(precious)

\- _fragile_.

Anders wondered, briefly, what it would be like to tell Hawke how he felt, about the rage and the fear and the pain; about the bleakness and the hopelessness and the bloody-minded fury; about the things he'd never said to Karl and the things he thought Karl had never said to him; about the grief he'd never let himself face, and the spirit in his head who had known nothing like it all, nothing at all, before Anders had trapped him within a single shared body, and torn them both apart to do so; about how much he loved Hawke, and how lonely he felt despite that love, terrified of loss, terrified of trust, terrified of _being in love_ , with all its uncertainties and pain and little jagged moments nothing like a storybook; and knew he never would. 

Instead, he leaned back on his heels, flashed Hawke a small smile, and said, "Sorry, love. Let's go to bed."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, everyone! I'm finally settling into a routine with my new job. The job itself is fine, but the three hours a day I spend commuting back and forth from it can bite me. Missed you guys!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anders loses a card game to the dog, and meets an old acquaintance.

The worst thing about Hawke's mabari - aside from the smell, and the drool, and the smell again - was that it was not a graceful winner.

"Cheer up, Blondie," said Varric, flipping him a sovereign as the mutt ran around the table barking in celebration; Anders caught the coin with supernatural reflexes. "You're getting better."

Fenris snorted in disbelief, counting out his own share of the pot; his coin heap was larger than it had been at the start. The dog barked cheerfully and nudged his elbow, and Fenris paused to scratch it behind an ear, an almost-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"That's what I'm here for," Hawke said, grinning. "Someone has to bankroll this household." 

"With loot stolen from bandits? Yeah, I saw you checking out their coin purses earlier, Hawke. Some of them weren't even _dead_. Some of them were, in fact, very much not dead, and still fighting Broody at the time."

"He's used to it," Hawke said. He had an arm draped across the back of Anders's chair. "I found a shiny gem and six weird totems that look sort of valuable, so as far as I'm concerned, it was a good day."

Varric laughed. "This mansion isn't going to keep itself financed, huh?"

"I would not be Hawke's friend if I had not learned to expect a certain... pragmatism around the subject of our enemies' coin purses," Fenris said. He glanced at Hawke briefly, little more than a quick flick of his eyes, and then shuffled the cards in his hand with a small smile dancing at the edge of his mouth, like Anders wasn’t watching.

Anders cleared his throat, thumb stroking over the five of serpents he held. He had a seven and an eight, which was the closest he'd come to a winning hand since Isabela had left. "You fought bandits? Intentionally? The three of you?"

Hawke's mouth twisted. "We were looking for a certain group of Tal Vashoth, but the bandits surprised us on the way. It was a long day."

The seven of serpents card had a water stain at the topmost edge. Anders focused on that, instead of the fact that Hawke had been out without him, had fought without him despite the fact that Hawke had never mastered Creation magic.

"Sebastian provided aid as well," Fenris said. His green eyes were cool but knowing. "Hawke was not unguarded, mage."

Maker, he hated it when the elf did that. "I see," he said, ignoring the way his abdomen tensed at the mention of the company Hawke kept nowadays.

"Meredith sent us," said Hawke, sounding almost apologetic. "The, uh, Tal Vashoth had a blood mage amongst their ranks."

Anders hadn't stepped foot in the Gallows for just over two years now - not since that nasty bit of business with Alrik, if it even counted. He was in no hurry to return. He felt his mouth pull downwards, and was aware of the way Varric and Fenris were watching him carefully. Not for the first time, he wondered why he bothered; why he played cards when he was so bad at it, why he had let himself be drawn into this when he and Fenris despised each other so, why he was even here.

Garrett coughed, clearing the silence; he reached across the table with his free hand and took the water jug in the centre next to the bottle of brandy, topping Anders's cup up without asking and then ducking to pour more water into the dog's bowl. Varric said, "How're the refugees doing?"

"I think at this point they aren't so much refugees as Darktown residents," Anders said. "It's... the same." Malnourishment, chokedamp, stab wounds; a litany of the familiar. Sometimes he would pause in his work and wash the blood from his hands in the mine shaft that overlooked the bay, watching the dirty water sleet down the cliffside and resolutely not looking at the Gallows.

He didn't know how much longer he could do this. He felt restless so very often nowadays, tense and sharp, part of him always on the lookout for templars, even as he struggled to find the will to act. Nothing he did mattered. Nothing he could do mattered. The Underground as he knew it was gone, and he had instructed Bodahn and Sandal to burn Bancroft's letters on arrival. For the first time he had become aware of the enormity of the task he had set himself to accomplish, the size of the Chantry and how deep its hold had become embedded, and found himself overwhelmed. He was one man, possessed by a spirit incapable of understanding mercy. 

He was dangerous, to himself and to innocents. How could he hope to save the mages?

How could he trust himself again?

Hawke palmed Anders's thigh under the table; when Anders glanced down it was to see the corner of a card peeking out from between Garrett's fingers - a six of serpents, exactly what Anders needed for a full hand. All he needed to do was cover Hawke's hand with his own, accept the card being passed his way...

He set his cards down on the table instead. "I'm out," he said, and felt Hawke's fingers tense momentarily. "Thank you for the evening, I'll be in the clinic if you need me." With the treatise on spirit possession Varric had gotten him, with some of Hawke's candles; he was a third of the way through the book.

Varric smiled, but his eyes were sharp. "You sure, Blondie? Been a while since you joined us for Diamondback."

Anders's stomach was in knots. "Just lost my taste for losing my coin purse, I suppose," Anders said. He pushed his chair back from the table, taking the card from Hawke's now-unresisting grip and setting it atop his terrible hand on the table, and glanced around at the other players, almost challenging them to make something of it. Fenris's eyes flicked from the card to Hawke, and his mouth quirked, but he didn't say anything; Varric was frowning thoughtfully at him and the dog was just sitting there, tongue lolling.

He didn't belong here, he knew. No amount of Hawke trying to fit him in would make that change.

Garrett cleared his throat, leaned forward and swept Anders's cards in with his own. "Do you want anything before you go? A sandwich?"

"No," Anders said. Hawke couldn't give him what he wanted, what he needed; he touched Hawke's shoulder lightly as he left, in apology, and felt Hawke's eyes on him as he walked away. He didn't dare look back,

It was what it was.

* * *

He extinguished the lantern with a practiced gesture, closing the doors firmly against the draft. Now, the clinic was illuminated solely by the dim natural light leaking in through the holes in walls leading out over the bay; without the braziers burning the wind whistled across what little furnishings he had quite mournfully.

"At least it's got a roof," said Bancroft, sitting on one of the cots gingerly. It creaked beneath his weight but did not collapse.

"There's that," Anders agreed shortly, crossing over to the three-legged chair pushed up against his desk. "Why are you here?"

Bancroft had been waiting for him outside his clinic when he arrived, wearing an ill-fitting cowl. Last Anders had heard, he'd taken to hiding near Sundermount after the Templars and their hounds had flushed him and some of the other Underground members out of the sewers. His clothes looked shabby, and his cheeks were gaunter than Anders remembered seeing them.

"You never wrote back," Bancroft said. "I thought better of you than this, Anders."

"Than what?" Anders said, lighting a pair of appropriated glass-shielded lanterns with a small spark of mana. "I told you, I told Selby before she left, it's not safe for me to help out, not after Alrik -"

Even in the half-light of the fires, Bancroft's eyeroll was easy enough to follow. He tugged his robe around himself more tightly. "It's not safe for any of us. You don't think we're struggling, too? I lost one of mine to a rage demon yesterday and two more putting him down." His voice was sharp, but not unkind. "That's still better odds than the poor sods in the Gallows. Six this week. Three from the windows, two by templar, one hanging."

Anders gritted his teeth. "Blood magic?"

"Apparently." 

Their eyes met; Anders thought the expression of disdain on Bancroft's face was a more than adequate expression for his own feelings on the topic. 'Blood magic,' the templars always said, and nobody ever cared enough to fight them on the subject, not for a handful of dead mages. He looked away, wetting his lips; the fingers of his right hand curled into a fist, blue flicker-flashing across his knuckles, and he made himself breathe out slowly through his nose.

"My contacts in the Gallows are almost gone," said Bancroft. "I'm getting this second-hand from the sister of a templar. Anders, we need you."

"I know," said Anders, bending his head over his own lap and linking his hands together over the back of his neck; his shoulders ached, stiff with muscle strain. He'd been up all night reading the books Varric had brought him, the Tevene dictionary balanced on his knee. At some point Hawke had thrown a blanket over his shoulders, kissed his temple, and told him not to stay up all night, which had startled him; he hadn't been aware Garrett was still awake himself. "I don't know what I can do for you, Bancroft. Nobody ever read my manifesto. I never..."

What had he done, truly? He hadn't managed to recruit anybody even before Meredith began her purge of the Underground; the only person he had met who had ever shown any interest in the cause of magekind in general had been Hawke, and Hawke was worth too much to risk like this. Even Merrill, a mage herself, didn't care - too wrapped up in her mirror.

"The world is too frightened of us," he said, and almost didn't recognize the edge to his own voice. "We can't force them not to be afraid. Not while the Chantry tell them over and over again that they should be."

Bancroft stood up and made his way over to the broken mine-shaft Anders kept some of his supplies in, concealed amongst the rubble. Leaning against the doorway, the sea wind ruffling his hair, he said, "Maybe we need to make our people fight for themselves before we worry about the world fighting for them."

Anders snorted with scorn. "If my time amongst the Circle taught me one thing, it is that two mages in a room will have six different opinions," he said. "The Grand Enchanter held a conclave. It was voted down, and even I can admit for good reason. The templars would never let mages be free, they hate us too much. Even the sympathetic ones see us as sheep, not people."

"Not all of us," Bancroft said, and turned around to look at him. His face was stark and expressionless; his newly sharpened cheekbones caught the light, highlighting the dark circles under his eyes. "Not Hawke. Not the Champion."

"No."

"Anders -"

" _No_." There was an echoing bass edge to his refusal this time; he didn't know whether or not he glowed but he could taste metal against his teeth.

Bancroft scowled. "If you weren't fucking him, you would use him," he said. Anders flinched. "He's the most potent weapon we have, a free mage who doesn't use blood magic. A defender of the people."

"And he is a symbol to mages everywhere exactly as he is," Anders snapped. "No. What you want - you'd soil him. He stays as he is. The day we need him to help us is - is the day all is lost."

"It's already lost, Anders," Bancroft said. He sighed, rubbing at a greying temple with two fingers. "Meredith drove six mages to their deaths last week. You're fucking the Champion of Kirkwall, who by all accounts is besotted with you, and you want to waste him on clearing _bandits_ out of the Wounded Coast."

"Should I throw him in the Gallows?" Anders snarled. His thumb found its way to the ring he wore, pressed tight against the metal for comfort. "He could use that wit and charisma to unite the mages! Up until Meredith had enough of his lip and stabbed him. _No_."

"So, what?" Bancroft's nose wrinkled. "You think you'll keep him free, being heroic, and somehow that will make the mages in the Gallows less _dead_? The members of the Underground less _hanged_?” He paused, and then said, in a rush, “It's only a matter of time until she slaughters them all. We have to fight back. We have to kill her before she kills us all."

The words floated out there, treasonous as they were; Anders felt his palms prickle. "Is that what you think will end this? Killing Meredith?"

"It's a start."

Anders glanced away sharply, his heart thudding in his chest. That metal taste in his mouth was somehow sharper, and he was keenly aware of a small, spidering crack across his wrist, following the line of his veins where they rode close to the surface. "The Knight-Commander is just a symptom," he said.

"Tell that to the mages in the Gallows," Bancroft replied. 

A chilly silence fell between them then. Anders stared at his desk, on which one of the refugees had left a small bundle of elfroot, and another two copper coins; Bancroft paced from wall to wall, measuring out the length and breadth of the clinic with his feet. The blue light had faded from Anders's veins, not that it mattered; he carried the indignation within him, instead. Six mages dead, and many more likely to come. He wished he knew how to teach the mages not to love their masters; wished he knew how to force the Chantry to let them go.

A sudden gust of wind howled through the clinic, piercing through Anders's coat. Bancroft leaning against one of the walls with his hood up and his eyes cold and hard, sighed and glanced away. "I should go," he said. "It's a long trek back to my cave. But Anders... Think about it."

Anders slid his chair back carefully to avoid it toppling over, uneven and broken as it was. "We'll see," he said, pushing the door open, and paused; Hawke was sitting at the foot of the stairs leading up to the clinic, his back to Anders but his silhouette distinctive enough. He turned his head slightly to the side at the sound of the door opening but not enough to see his face. His staff leaned against the wall next to him, and he was picking at his nails with his dagger, the one Sebastian had given him for his last name-day with the hilt wrapped in red ribbon. 

Bancroft eeled past Anders and hesitated just as he had at the sight; he glanced at Anders once, from underneath his hood, his jaw squared and eyes unreadable, before making his way down the steps. "Champion," he said, as he passed Hawke, who just nodded at him.

"Diamondback over and done with?" Anders said, leaning his hip against the door jamb and folding his arms over his chest. "You didn't knock."

Hawke slid the dagger back into its sheath at the small of his back and pushed himself upright, hands on his thighs. Anders watched him move critically, saw the stiffness in his knees and shoulders. "I heard voices," Hawke said. "Lantern wasn't lit, so... I thought I'd wait."

"You came from the estate?"

Hawke fished the cellar key out from beneath his vest, lifting his eyebrows; Anders nodded and stepped aside, jerking his head at the clinic door. Garrett hefted his staff in a familiar, swaggering motion, shoulders and hips rolling smoothly with momentum and smirking as he did so, but Anders couldn't have missed the way he chose to list slightly to the left as he climbed the steps if he'd tried.

"Sit down," he said, shutting the door behind them.

"Yes, Ser, please, _Ser_ ," Hawke said, ambling over to the same cot Bancroft had perched on not so long ago. The two men were so dissimilar it was almost striking; Bancroft had been pale where Hawke was weathered, and too thin while Hawke's arms were thick and strong, roped with muscle from hard work. 

Anders came to stand in front of him, and Hawke grinned, teeth white against his dark beard; he set his hands lazily on Anders's hipbones, thumbs caressing small circles along the sides of his arse. Anders touched two fingers to Hawke's shoulders and concentrated, touching the veil gently and then reaching across it to the raw Fade. This close, he could see what he had only guessed at before, the places where Hawke was stretched thin and worn down. Tal Vashoth and bandits and blood mages; Carta, Coterie, giant spiders and dragonlings... Hawke was not a peaceful man. There was only so much a body could take.

He sent a pulse of magic through Hawke, anchoring the spell within his bones. Touching Hawke like this, he could feel Hawke's heart beating like he held it in his palms, sense the air moving rhythmically through his lungs like they were his own. His hands lit up with their own aura, the cast-off energy his spells generated thrown back as a display of light. "When were you going to tell me you were hurt?" 

"It's just a bit of muscle sprain," Hawke said. "When were you going to introduce me to your not-at-all suspicious friend?"

"Never, for your own safety," Anders said flatly. The edges of Hawke's mouth twitched downward. "... You've got a cut on your calf."

Hawke protested again that it was just a scratch, nothing to worry about, and Anders rolled his eyes and healed it away regardless. The edges had been clean. Maker only knew if it had been bandits or the Tal Vashoth blood mage - if it had even truly been a blood mage, and not Meredith's paranoia running unchecked with an unhuman apostate. 

It wasn't, Anders thought, as the magic flexed its way along the muscles of Hawke's thigh, as though that would come as a surprise.

"There," said Anders, touching Hawke's cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. "All healed. Feeling better, love?"

"Fishing for compliments?" Hawke said. He smiled crookedly and stretched out his legs, rotating his ankles carefully around before seemingly deciding everything was fine, and squeezed Anders's hips in silent gratitude. Anders let his fingers drift from Hawke's shoulders along his arms, until his palms settled over Hawke's rough, scarred knuckles.

"Perhaps a little," he agreed, and tried to smile. It felt hollow, and Hawke mimicked it instinctively but it never touched his eyes; a quick lightning-bolt of a grimace, flashing across his face and gone before it really sunk in. With a sigh, Hawke leaned forward so that his forehead rested solidly against Anders's naval.

"You missed Aveline's wedding," he said.

It had been two days ago. Anders had hidden in the clinic with the lantern on, although few enough patients had come in that he had been able to translate the better half of a chapter in his book. "I know," he said without blinking. "I... We're not exactly friends, Aveline and I, love."

"I seem to recall _someone_ asking about toenail painting," Hawke began, teasingly, but Anders cut him off.

"Before she began rounding up my people and sending them to the Gallows, perhaps. She's your friend, although I can't think why. She's even more thick-headed than Fenris."

Hawke sighed. "Don't," he said.

Anders let go of his hands. Bancroft's words echoed in his ear, and he felt a curl of irritation through his belly. "Of course," he said, moving away sharply, toward his desk where the books awaited him. "They hate mages but tolerate you, so not a bad word can be said about them!"

"Anders," Hawke said, sounding exasperated.

"Never you mind that Aveline sends people just like you or me to the Gallows with not an ounce of regret. Templars? They're put-upon hard workers -"

"Anders."

"- who are innocent of all wrong-doing, but _mages_ , well, she's too bloody pig-headed to understand us, and -"

" _Anders_ -"

"- therefore we _deserve_ everything we get, and the way she hides behind the law? Never mind that she butchers slavers for Fenris without guilt or due process, they're preying on non-mages so -"

"What do you want me to say, Anders?" Hawke's voice was sharp. "She's stuck with me for a long time. Could've turned me into the Gallows; hasn't. Could've turned _you_ into the Gallows, or Merrill; didn't. I didn't expect you to be at her wedding, and I don't expect you to be kissing acquaintances, but..."

"But what?" Anders snarled, furious. "Ignore the _injustice_ she carries out? She is an officer of the law and her place is to provide the same justice for all her charges, mage or not! Her double-standard is a -"

"Careful," Hawke said. He was smiling but it was a wolf's smile, all teeth and no real humour. "Keep glowing like that and the refugees will think you're open for business."

Anders glanced down at his hands. They were cut through with veins of blue, jagged little lines threading over his knuckles and across the backs of his hands, marching clean across his scar tissue and interrupted only by the ring on his thumb. He couldn't feel Justice anywhere inside, nothing in his head but his own outrage.

"I understand how you feel, Justice," Hawke said, in a placating tone. He hadn't moved a muscle, not even when Anders had... lost control, he supposed. "She's not perfect. She's trying to do what she thinks is right, carry out her own form of justice as best we mortals can -"

"It's not Justice," Anders interrupted shortly. "Just me." He sagged down onto the three-legged chair, staring at his hands; he closed his eyes and breathed out, and when he opened them again the light was gone. He still felt... himself, no foreign presence rattling around his head. "Just me," he said again, listening to his own voice but hearing no deep undertone to make his words a lie.

Hawke cocked his head, watching him thoughtfully. "I thought - when you got all bright-eyed..."

Anders flexed his fingers and swallowed. He had no idea what this meant, none whatsoever; and it frightened him more than he could say. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hawke move, and he flicked his eyes upward in time to watch his lover sink into an awkward crouch in front of him. Hawke hands reached for his, and Anders let him take them in his strong grip, Hawke's thumbs pressing into his palms and his fingers warm and rough. Grounding. "I'm sorry," he said. "About..." Maker, where even to begin.

"Hey," said Hawke, gently. "No, I understand."

"I don't deserve your love," Anders whispered, and Hawke blew out a slow long breath. "I'm not... I don't know what's happening to me. I should have never..."

_Loved you,_ he thought. _Let you love me back._ He was dangerous. He had known it even before the incident with Alrik, even before he had assaulted Hawke in the Warden prison; and still Hawke kept coming back, wearing that stripe of war paint with an audacity utterly unlike how he tried not to wear his heart on his sleeve.

Garrett squeezed his hands carefully. "Anders," he said, "Would you believe me if I told you that before I met you, my life was a dark place?"

Anders glanced away, uncomfortable, but Hawke let his hand go to catch his chin between two fingers and a thumb. "I mean it," he continued. "I had to spend a _fortune_ on candles."

He grinned at the expression on Anders's face. It was a small thing compared to his usual grins, but Anders had become, over their years together, familiar with the minutiae of Hawke's facial expressions, the shapes of his smiles. Some of them were very similar to his own, before he invited Justice in. 

Hawke was running blind, just the same as Anders, but he'd never liked admitting his weaknesses. In a way, it was heartening. Hawke might not understand, but in many ways it… helped, having someone who believed in him, in _them_ , who hadn’t balked and who believed that Anders was…

Well. Better than he had been so far.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence," he said, and smiled back. It was a shadow of itself, pitiful and weak, but real all the same.

Hawke leaned forward, touching their foreheads together, and took up Anders's free hand again. His palms were warm, his thumb touched the ring Anders had had from him so long ago now and never replaced; his eyes were piercing but not unkind. It hurt to meet them but not as much as Anders had feared. 

"Are you going back out after bandits tomorrow?" Anders asked. His voice was soft, barely more than a breath breathed into the finite space between their mouths. He didn't know why he asked, but he found that he wanted to know. He should be with Hawke, to ward away the aches and the pain.

Hawke shook his head. "I have a dinner party tomorrow afternoon," he said. "I'd ask if you want to come but we both know the answer to that, I think."

Anders nodded, silent acceptance. He hadn't attended any of Hawke's parties since the one hosted in their estate, months ago; he disliked the attention and feared the consequences of flaunting their relationship in front of the Knight-Commander. "Who with?"

"The Bennings," Hawke said. "Marcher merchantmen, they own half the dyer's guild. And," and he grinned savagely, "recently lost a large contract for the City Guard's uniforms to an Orlesian rival who supplies the Templar Order with their skirts, thanks to Meredith. They're not happy, and neither are a bunch of their fellow merchants. Old Kirkwall rivalries tend to be set aside when Orlesians become involved, and guard uniforms are a matter for the Viscount, you see, not the Knight-Commander or the Chantry."

Anders licked his lips. "Hawke..."

Hawke’s eyes were sparkling. "Add in a rumour that the Orlesians got their foothold in the city not just through Chantry nepotism but also Meredith's anti-mage paranoia, since the Bennings had a second cousin who happened to be a mage, and the party is sure to be… informative."

Anders drew back, feeling a chill oozing through his chest. "This is thin ice, Hawke," he said carefully. "If Meredith hears of you attending a party like this -"

"It's just a party," Hawke said. He was still smiling but there was an edge to it now, a ferocious wolfishness that had Anders biting his bottom lip. "I'm the Champion. Parties, diplomacy, befriending the nobility in the name of securing alliances and keeping the peace for Kirkwall... that's what I do."

"A position Meredith gave you," Anders reminded him, nose wrinkled. He bunched his shoulders, leaning in close. "A position she could take away if she feels threatened. Hawke, love, I... please, promise me you'll be careful."

He kept his tone light but tried to put some urgency into his words. He hadn't kept Hawke from Selby or Bancroft to lose him to this. He didn't know if he could live with losing Hawke to the Chantry, not and come out of it whole. His heart ached.

Hawke kissed him on the forehead. His beard was ticklish, his lips gentle, and Anders closed his eyes and tipped his chin down, letting his fingers curl loosely around Hawke's palms; when Hawke drew back, he tightened his grip.

"I do what I need to do, Anders," Hawke said, his eyes on their hands. He made no effort to pull free. His mouth quirked. "I learned from the best, after all."

There was something hard and nameless lodged in Anders's throat. He drew in a thin breath through his nose, and blinked hard to clear his vision; let his gaze fall to the ring on his thumb, glinting silver against his skin. He had come across many magic rings in his time with Hawke, and yet this one - moderate in power, plain in appearance - had stayed with him. It had been Hawke's, and now it was his, and Anders's chest felt tight. He swallowed heavily and said, "It's getting late. We should go home."

"Trying to seduce me at this late hour?" Hawke's tone was teasing, but his gaze careful. "Well, you should know by now... anything you want, Anders."

"I know," Anders said. His shoulders ached. He did know, and perhaps that was the worst of it.

* * *

That night, Anders dreamed of the Blight flowing through the city streets - black ichor that sung faintly, although try as he might he could not remember the melody. He stood on the balcony of the Hawke estate and looked out over the city, watching as the Blight seethed and bubbled, and amongst the rot he thought he saw Karl's face as he had last seen it - sunburst brand and rivulet of blood from the corner of his mouth, gentle eyes distant and clouded without surprise. 

It figured that he never dreamed, these days, of Karl looking like he had looked when they were young. Only after the Chantry had murdered him in spirit if not in name, after Anders had been forced to put down the body. When he glanced down his hand held the blade, and he glowed, brilliant blue; but beneath the glow he could feel the rot, see the dark patches of corruption oozing across his knuckles. 

There was an old song in his bones.

He awoke with a start and felt Hawke jerk awake beside him, tangled together as they were. The shadows wreathed their bedroom ceiling, and the dog snored quietly on the rug before the fire, silhouetted by the banked flames. Anders turned his head toward Hawke, breathing heavily, eyes searching for his lover's face in the darkness. Hawke was watching him, the whites of his eyes gleaming, and Anders touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth, drawing in a breath - for an apology, for reassurance - he couldn't say.

It didn't matter, in the end. "Ssh," Hawke said, and kissed him. Anders's flanks were slippery with sweat, and his heart was pounding within his chest, but he parted his lips eagerly for Hawke's tongue; when Hawke slipped a thick thigh between his legs, grinding down against Anders's cock, Anders moaned and rolled onto his back, welcoming the kindling heat in the pit of his abdomen. He had never turned down a distraction, not after a Blight dream.

Or a Karl dream.

"I've got you," Hawke said, in the dark; he was climbing atop Anders now, clumsy and desperate. Anders's cock throbbed between his legs, and he could taste metal in his mouth. He had no idea what any of it meant. Hawke's fingers held onto Anders's biceps, pressing tight against the flesh, and Anders spread his legs to make room for him; cupped the meat of Hawke's ass in his palms, held on as tight as he could. Hawke groaned, breathing heavily into Anders's neck, and the sensation had Anders's stomach aching not even half as much as his dick.

Hawke's hips moved as he thrust against Anders's erection; his cock was damp and leaking already. He let go of Anders's bicep, resting more of his weight against Anders's chest; Anders grunted but welcomed the pressure, all the more so when Hawke's hand wandered down to take their cocks into his grip. "Hawke," he said, and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"I've got you," Hawke repeated, stroking them both at the pace he knew Anders liked, and in the dark his words felt like a prayer. "I've got you, love, stay with me."

Anders's toes were curling. His balls ached and he felt the pleasure sparking along his entire body from his thighs to his chest to his nipples, stiff and rubbing against the thick hair of Hawke's chest; his mouth lolled open and he raised his chin, digging his heels into the soft feather mattress and arching up as much as he could, as much as Hawke's bulk would let him. It wasn't far. He should feel trapped, but he never had, not with Hawke; this place right here between the feathers and the man was right where he wanted to be, and he could only gasp as Hawke's rough, skilful fingers worked their lengths with a dexterity born of familiarity. 

He was panting softly, he noticed, with that small watchful part of his brain that never switched off - that had learned, in the Circle, that privacy was a thing mages could not be trusted with. It was still there, no matter how many years it had been since the apprentice dorm. He was, by now, well-versed in ignoring it.

Hawke's mouth was rough and sloppy against his throat, his beard coarse against Anders's own stubble, but Anders hardly cared. His mind was somewhere else, somewhere between Hawke's hand and Hawke's cock up against his own and the things Hawke mouthed directly into his skin, too primal for words; and somewhere in the midst of all that - as he ran the nails of his left hand lightly along the cleft between Hawke's cheek, the pad of his thumb swiping teasingly over the edge of Hawke's hole - he came. 

Garrett followed him a bare half-heartbeat later, crashing down upon Anders like a puppet with its strings cut. For a while they lay there together, Anders matching his breathing to Hawke's so that the silence seemed less so. He felt cleaner, emptier inside, some of the seething turmoil in his head and his heart fading; Hawke's heart thudded against his chest, a steady drumbeat that somehow soothed the last echoes of the ancient song.

It wouldn't last. The melody haunted him, a pattern he could never remember; but sometimes he would find himself humming it, a few notes out of place amidst the clinic or their bedroom. Anders swallowed in the dark, aware of every inch of his mortal body, the air in his lungs and the fluttering of his pulse and even the cooling stickiness of their come, smeared between his body and Hawke's; small things, vital things, proof that he lived and that he was here.

He was running out of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus we've almost reached the end of the gap between Acts 2 and 3. I think I managed to get a fair amount of content out of a [one-paragraph codex entry](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Codex_entry:_Anders_-_The_Last_Three_Years)! Go figure.
> 
> I'd apologise for the delay but honestly, I do that every chapter, it's just depressing at this point. Work has just kicked my ass 24/7 since December. If you've stayed with me, thank you so much, and I'm sorry.


End file.
